Captive
by Rising-From-The-Ground
Summary: Hermione has been captured by Death Eaters and is now residing in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, being tortured daily by Bellatrix. However things are complicated just that little bit more when something evil is released... and now no one can escape.    ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter One: Anywhere but here

**DISCALIMER: I do not own Harry Potter not matter how desperately I wish that I did. I don't own the marvelous characters created by JK Rowling, nor do I own anything else that is familiar to you, the reader. **

**A/N: Just a note about this story, updates, etc. I don't normally write fanfiction because I tend to get off-track and start writing my own things. So writing Fanfiction is rather the challenge for me and as such, I may not update regularly (I have three chapters written already though, so fingers crossed)  
><strong>**I also really appreciate concrit and if you could help me improve in any way, shape or form please do feel free to do so as it will most definitely help me in the future :D **

**Thank you for choosing to read this Fic and I will do everything in my power as to not let you down :)**

**Chapter One  
><strong>**Anywhere but here**

_July 27 1997  
><em>_11:45 pm_

The clear night sky stretched over the expanse of Privet Drive as the seven Harry Potter doppelgangers mounted brooms, Thestrals and in one particular case, a flying motorbike.

Everyone was ready; they were simply waiting for Mad-eye's word.

"Good luck, everyone," shouted Mad-eye. "See you all in about an hour at The Burrow. On the count of three. One…two…THREE."

The roar of a motorbike pummeled through the night air, the brooms hovered off the ground gently and immediately speed away at astounding speeds in different directions into the night sky. The Thestrals flapped their giant leathery wings and lifted into the cool night air before flying high toward the stars above.

It was safe to say that a certain witch, Hermione Granger, who was scared to death of heights, immediately felt like vomiting as soon as she looked down at the tiny streetlights as they slowly but surely become a soft glow amongst the fog.

"Don't look down Hermione," said Kingsley Shacklebolt in his deep voice. "It only makes the experience worse."

Hermione gulped and furrowed her brows while she forcibly turned to stare at the back of the man's head. She felt a tiny bit calmer, having heard his voice, but only a small bit. That was the beauty about riding with Kingsley: his voice could calm a paranoid schizophrenic in no time at all. Heck, its part of what him a fabulous leader. His voice was like a warm blanket in the way that when he spoke, you felt safe and secure.

She wondered about how everyone was fairing and if they were safe. Of course, the idea of being safe at this height on either a wonky piece of wood or shifty animal was absolutely ludicrous- a person would be safer walking into Mordor. She hoped that they were okay. Her heart clenched fearfully as she wondered that inevitable thought: What if they weren't okay? What if someone had fallen off a broom? Even worse: what if someone had a run-in with the Deatheaters? She tightened her grip on Kingsley, needing to know that she was safe as long as someone as experienced as Kingsley was with her. At least that's what she told herself.

She looked above and found herself looking at the stars- tiny pin points of light that danced above the Earth. She found herself occupying her mind by tracing invisible lines between them, linking the different stars together and making pictures; she found it rather calming. She was halfway through making the shape of a locket when she felt the Thestral lurch downwards and to the side.

She screamed and tightened her grip on Kingsley further, closing her eyes tight.

"Its okay, its okay!" he shouted, steering the Thestral upwards. "He just got spooked, that's all."

"Spooked by what?" Hermione murmured, daring to open her eyes the tiniest bit.

"I'm not sure." He replied calmly.

The witch breathed in a deep breath of the crisp air and wondered how her friends could even play Quidditch. The height was bad enough; it was far too high. Not only that, but there was the constant danger that you could fall off your broom and fall to the ground that was far, far below where you would surely splat and-

She needed to stop thinking.

Taking another calming breath of air and closing her eyes, she listened instead to the beat of the Thestrals wings as they cut through the light wind.

It was probably one of the oddest noises that she'd ever heard. It sounded almost like a flag flapping in the wind, but with a slight whistle that indicated that the flag had small holes in its fabric.

Okay, so it wasn't that odd, but Hermione liked it and she counted each individual flap so that by some miracle, she would eventually forget that one wrong move, and she would fall to the ground.

It wasn't even fifteen minutes later when she heard the sound of shouting.

She felt Kingsley tense up and then felt that horrible pull where the Thestral's weight shifted and started to fly in another direction.

"What's going on?" she asked, becoming fully aware of the fact that she _shouldn't_ be hearing any shouting.

_What if it's Deatheaters?_

She placed her hand over the bulk in her pocket where her wand was kept and adjusted the glasses that were perched on her nose. Swallowing her nausea that made itself evident when she remembered the height, she looked around them and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing that surrounded them was the dark of the night sky and the chilling air that came with being this high…which was odd because it wasn't this cold before.

"You heard that too?" replied Kingsley, looking straight ahead.

"Of course." She said, becoming increasingly aware of the chilling cold that was seeping through her jacket.

She felt Kingsley shiver; an involuntary reaction against the cold.

When she breathed out, she could see her breath as it misted out of her mouth. Her teeth began to chatter against her will, so she closed her mouth tightly and leaned in closer to Kingsley so that she could try and keep warm. The only problem was that Kingsley seemed to be just as cold as herself.

"It wasn't this cold before," she began, fighting the shivers that came with the cold. "Did we get higher?"

It was a small minute before Kingsley replied and when he answered, it was almost as if the cold of the air had seeped into his voice as well.

"Tell me Hermione, can you cast a patronus?"

Just like that, she whipped her wand out of her pocket just as a hollow rattling noise coming from behind them became apparent.

She turned around as much as she could on the Thestral and feeling determined she shouted ,"_EXPECTO PATRONUM_!" thinking of the time when she, Harry and Ron sat beside each other on the edge of the Black Lake, joking happily about the Giant Squid that was said to live in it. For a fleeting moment, she wished more than anything that things could be that simple again. She'd give anything to be back at that lake with her two best friends, not having to worry about Voldemort at every turn.

A silvery otter erupted from the tip of her vine-wood wand and swam harshly toward the black mass that was a Dementor. The Dementor's mouth opened wide in a silent scream, showing its rows of rotting yellow teeth, the smell of rotting flesh accompanying the action. The Dementor made a shrieking noise and fled backwards in a flurry of black out of her sight. She felt the tiniest bit warmer.

Suddenly feeling a bone gnawing chill to her right, she turned around halfway on the Thestral and cast another patronus using the same memory and watched in satisfaction as the Dementor swooped away.

However the satisfaction was short-lived as another Dementor barreled toward her.

_Wow they just keep on coming,_ she grudgingly thought to herself.

She cast the patronus once more but was shocked when it didn't stop the Dementor's progress in the slightest.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM_!" she yelled, filling herself with that golden happiness again.

But the Dementor was still hurtling her way. Despite it being hopeless against a Dementor (but really, she was running out of ideas), she cast a quick 'stupefy' and watched in horror as the Dementor flicked her spell away.

But it was impossible for Dementor to use magic, wasn't it? She hadn't read anywhere before that Dementors could use magic, especially any magic that could trump a wizards. What if it was possible but she'd overlooked it, or forgotten? What if that was the reason she hadn't scored a perfect score in the last DADA test back at Hogwarts?

But another question flittered to the forefront of her mind in that split second and as she thought it, she could feel her blood run cold.

What of this wasn't a Dementor at all?

Despite the chill in her bones-that had nothing to do with the cold air- seeping through her system, she steeled herself and used the first spell that she could think of.

"_Impedimenta_!" she cast, never once looking away from her target. But to her dismay, the jinx was deflected by the Deatheater's wand and she fired another spell, hoping to any God out there that she could at least make it stumble.

"_Incarcerous_!"

"_Avis Oppugno_!"

It all happened in a few moments, but the Deatheater kept on making its slimy way toward the two, only falling back twice to rid itself of the birds that Hermione had sent.

Suddenly a flash of green light came from the tip of the Deatheater's wand and she screamed, ducking just in time.

"_Protego Horribilis_" she cast, directing her magic to the area surrounding herself and Kingsley. She knew that it would probably be useless, but any protection whatsoever would make her feel slightly more protected.

Another flash of green and she screamed again, shifting closer to Kingsley as to avoid the killing curse.

"_Deprino_!" she fired, hoping that the strong wind would at least knock the Deatheater off course.

It worked a tiny bit, until another Deatheater swirled upwards until it was five meters away.

As a child, she always wondered what it would feel like to look into the eyes of death itself and in that one moment, she knew; it was terrifying.

She sent a silent prayer to her parents and to anyone else up there, hoping that they would look over those she failed to protect.

These Deatheaters were simply too skilled and she knew that it was a losing battle.

"_Crucio,_" the black form hissed and suddenly she was in unbearable pain.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered the fact that she had let go of Kingsley and that her limbs were thrashing uncontrollably, so much so that she spooked the Thestral and it dived, causing her to fall off its back…

Down she fell, the pain seeping away from her bones whilst a whole new sensation took over. She would take the cruciatus curse a million times if she could avoid feeling this sensation again; that sensation that you were falling so fast that you left your stomach somewhere behind, and yet somehow you were still alive. Yes, she would rather feel unbearable pain compared to this emotional torture, it was the feeling of terror, the feeling of absolute horror: of knowing that despite everything, you had to accept that you were going one way and one way only.

Down, she was still falling and when she could clearly see the outline of a double-decker bus and make out the color of a single pedestrian's hair who walking slowly down a sidewalk in London, she closed her eyes and promptly blanked out.

DMHG

The Burrow  
><em>27<em>_th__ July, 1997  
><em>_11:52 pm_

"Still not here," sighed Ginny with a hint of worry evident in her tone. She was sitting on the Multi-patched couch in the living room, staring intently into the darkness out the window. "She should be here by now."

George was laying on an equally tattered couch on the opposite side of the room, holding a towel to the gaping hole that was where his ear had previously existed whilst he joked half-heartedly with his twin. However upon hearing Ginny he sighed and said in a wavering moment of seriousness, "She'll be fine, Gin. Hermione's smart; probably smarter than half of the Deatheaters out there. They wouldn't stand a chance."

Ginny could hardly hear her brother though, because the thoughts in her head were far too loud.

What if Hermione had been desperately injured and was lying somewhere on the ground? What if she was firing away hexes at someone who was more skilled than she was? What if- what if what Fred and George said was true and there were Deatheaters firing killing curses out there as well? What if she had a run-in with a Deatheater and froze up because she was so scared? What if she was dead, what if-

Ginny pinched herself so that she would stop over-thinking. It was a bad habit that she had picked up over the years hanging around Hermione, who had a tendency to over think herself in every possible situation.

Yes, Hermione was always thinking, so there'd be no way that she _wasn't_ prepared for the Deatheaters. Surely Hermione would know what to do; she always did.

Sighing, the red-head stopped ogling the darkness outside and turned her gaze to the boy sitting beside her.

Harry had been the last one to arrive and currently had an expression of worry upon his face. Oh how Ginny wished that she could somehow make his stress go away.

He sat with his jaw stiff and she noticed that he was toying with the edge of his blue jacket in a nervous gesture. She could tell that he was anxious about Hermione too and she yearned to reach out and make him know that it was all okay… but she couldn't. No, he'd broken up with her. Sure it had been for her safety, but that didn't make it hurt any less. She had told him she wasn't made of glass and that she was strong enough, but he had insisted that it was for the best.

Yes, Harry Potter had the bad habit of assuming that his way of thinking was always right and that everyone who thought otherwise clearly wasn't thinking straight.

But she _was_ thinking straight and she just knew that she could help him with whatever it was that he was planning to do.

"She's not here yet, is she?" came a voice from the direction of the stairs. After a short moment, Ron walked into the room, his shoulders stiffened.

"No, she isn't." the red headed witch said, crossing her legs on the couch.

Harry didn't look up as Ron went to sit beside him and instead kept on looking straight ahead, still fiddling with his sleeve.

Ginny honestly felt like reaching out in that moment, but thought the best of it and instead took to thinking about what she would do when she saw Hermione.

Ginny had never really been one for excessive hugging and the like, but when it came to Hermione, the witch would make an exception.

Having grown up in a household full of boys, Ginny had always wanted an older sister, just someone who she could go to, to talk about absolutely anything in the world. A person she could giggle with about boys and the like; just a female who she could relate to, just another girl that she could always have to watch her back.

Hermione had always been that sister for Ginny.

She had been the one Ginny had gone to about Harry in the beginning, the person who had showed her the beauty of reading books and paying attention in class. Hermione was the person who had taught Ginny that emotions were important and that sometimes all you really needed _was_ a hug and some support.

Yes, Hermione was Ginny's sister through and through, and she hoped beyond hope itself that the bushy-haired witch would be back soon.

They needed her.

DMHG

Malfoy Manor  
><em>July 28<em>_th__, 1997  
><em>_3:00 am_

"I want to kill her!"

A manic, sing-song voice echoed through the Dungeon, becoming intensely louder than what it would have originally been had the stone walls not been there.

"But Bella you can't kill her-"

Another voice sounded, more masculine than the first. It was in reply to someone, so Bella must be the name belonging to the first voice.

"And why not?"

It was Bella again, she was quieter than the first time and she almost sounded…sulky?

"Because she could be of use to us."

The masculine voice was coming closer and this time, she could hear footsteps echoing around the chamber as well, accompanying the voice. It was impossible to tell which direction he was coming from, which made the experience somewhat eerie.

"What use could a Mudblood have to us, Lucy?"

Bella used a patronizing tone this time, her voice almost as close as 'Lucy's'. What an odd name for a male…

There was a huff of air, an exasperated one at that and Lucy replied, his voice now devastatingly close. So close in fact that he could easily touch the girl that lay sprawled on the concrete before him, if he wished to.

"She could be used as a hostage. If we keep her here, that Potter boy will come."

He reached out to prod the girl on the floor with his wand, who was still trying to get her distorted thoughts together.

Lucy and Bella; she hadn't ever known anyone with those names before. She had already assumed that they weren't very welcoming people (how else could she explain the concrete floor and disgusting smell that surrounded her?) and that they obviously didn't get along. Lucy seemed to get quite annoyed at Bella, and yet he couldn't really tell her to just be quiet. The witch wondered why Lucy didn't simply tell the woman to shut it. What could Bella possibly have over him?

But then a word started to bounce around the cavern that was her brain in that second, and she felt a small tug of fear grip at her stomach. _Hostage_. She was going to be used as a hostage so that Potter would come and get her.

Suddenly her breathing ceased and she gasped almost inaudibly as the fear gripped her tighter still. Surely, surely they couldn't mean Harry… and just like that, her memories came pouring back into her brain like a thin but roaring stream. She was supposed to be at The Burrow and she was supposed to have had arrived with Kingsley Shacklebolt. She was supposed to have been protecting Harry…the Dementors, the killing curse, the deatheaters and terror that pulled at her as she fell down…down into blackness.

Blonde. That was the color of the muggles' hair.

Lucy and Bella.

Horror washed over her as she realized who was in the room with her, who would be taking her as a hostage.

Surely, surely not… but it was. It was so apparent and she berated herself for not realizing it before.

Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange; one pig of a pureblood and one clinically insane, were right there in the room with her, and Lucius Malfoy was crouched down beside her, still prodding her with a wand that had surely cursed so many people.

She flinched upon thinking that thought, but immediately regretted the action as she heard Bellatrix screech in delight.

"So the Mudblood has chosen to wake!" she heard the sound of hurried footfalls and felt a stab of pain as her head was pulled by her hair backward off the ground. "Tell us, Mudblood, do you know where you are?"

Hermione was determined not to speak, for what reason, she didn't exactly know. All she knew was that she was going to speak as little as possible and then maybe, maybe they might get bored.

_Then again, _said a small voice in the back of her head, _they are rather sadistic, maybe they wouldn't care either way and would enjoy you not making a sound…maybe it would give them an incentive to 'break' you…_

Bellatrix tugged harder on her hair and Hermione gritted her teeth in pain. She felt her eyes water, even though she was determined to not cry. She simply refused to give them that small bit of satisfaction.

"I asked you a question, Mudblood," Bellatrix growled in her ear. Sadism dripped from every word she spoke and Hermione- whose thoughts were going every which way- imagined blood dripping fiendishly from a metal stake. "You'd do good not to snub your superiors." With another painful tug, Hermione could feel the tell-tale signs of blood as a warm liquid started to dribble down her neck.

Yet Bellatrix didn't lie off, not that Hermione had expected her to in the slightest.

Instead, the pain increased a tenfold until Hermione eventually cried out in agony and a cruel laughter echoed around the stone walls of the Dungeon.

And then, it was all over. Hermione's sticky head flopped downwards and by the feeling of a small breeze washing over her head, she knew that some of her hair had been pulled out.

Bellatrix's light footsteps echoed for a second until a shadow poured over Hermione's head. She felt the tip of Bellatrix's wand stick into the top of her throat and her chin was forced upwards until she was looking into the black eyes of the deranged woman.

"The question, Mudblood," she said softly, her foul breath washing over Hermione's face. "I asked you a simple question: _Do you know where you are?_"

Hermione was forced to stare into the deadly eyes of the psychotic woman, and as she stared, the answer came to her. Of course she knew where she was.

"M-Malfoy Manor." She stuttered out, hating the fact that her voice showed how truly terrified she was.

Bellatrix retracted her wand and Hermione's head flopped downwards again, her forehead hitting the cement floor with a dull thud.

"Well done Mudblood, very well done indeed." And as the maniacal laughter of Bellatrix Lestrange rang throughout the room, Hermione yearned like she had never yearned before; she desperately wished that she were at The Burrow with Harry, Ron and Ginny. She wished that she were anywhere but here.

_Anywhere but here._


	2. Chapter Two: Thoughts for Company

**Chapter Two**  
><strong>Thoughts for Company<strong>

Malfoy Manor  
><em>July 28<em>_th__, 1997  
><em>_7.00 am_

Hermione sat cross legged on the cold cement flooring of the dungeons at Malfoy Manor.

She had been awake for quite some time and was already rather bored. She smiled at the thought that despite everything that had happened- despite being relentlessly tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange last night (or was it earlier today?)- She still had the audacity to feel _bored_.

She didn't remember everything that had happened a while ago, and she figured that it was her brain trying to suppress the memories, but what she did in fact remember was the sound of Voldemort's most faithful servant, cackling in such a disgustingly high pitch that had there been any glass in the dungeon, it would have surely smashed.

She flinched when she remembered the murderous woman's evil laughter. It wasn't the Hollywood "Muahaha" that would be suited to an evil overlord; no, when Bellatrix Lestrange laughed, it was a high pitched, maniacal sound. It was the sound that a deranged psychopath would surely make.

Hermione remembered her hair being pulled from her scalp and just to make sure that she hadn't made the memory up- even though part of her secretly wished she had- she felt the back her head and wasn't surprised to feel that the hair was much, much thinner there. So thin, in fact, that it resembled that of a balding old man. Hermione had never thought of herself to be particularly vain, but the loss of her hair had her feeling somewhat mournful, as if she had lost an old friend.

Upon thinking of friendship, the witch started to think about her own friends and if they were all safe.

What if something had happened to Ron? The pain that poked and prodded at her heart had a fresh wave of tears washing over the girl. Hermione loved Ron. If Ron were injured in any way, shape or form, if he were dead- Hermione wouldn't know what to do. Ron was her everything. Sure he could be massive git-slash-prat-slash-twat, but at the same time, he was the sweetest, kindest person she knew.

She already missed much about him. She missed his fiery red hair, the freckles on the end of his nose; she missed his shining blue eyes and his strong arms. She missed the way he would grunt during a game of wizard chess if you tried talking to him and she missed the way he would lighten the mood if things were suddenly too heavy. Ronald Weasley, with his bright hair, was almost reminiscent of a human sun- an analogy that suited him all-too well.

Yes, she missed that red headed git, and she was determined that she would make it back, if for him alone.

She felt her legs becoming too stiff, so she uncrossed them and moved them out in front of her. That small movement caused a jolt of pain to slice through her calf, and she bit her lip as she waited for the ache to die down. Bellatrix hadn't simply used cruico on Hermione. No, Hermione clearly remembered being pinched so hard that she bled (an experience which she didn't want to relive any time soon) and being slapped multiple times; so much so that she found she couldn't touch her own face without it throbbing.

Where her calf hurt was where Bellatrix had seen fit to pinch her and Hermione silently cursed that God-awful woman again.

Sitting in that cold, hard dungeon, there was one thing and one thing only that was clear to Hermione; she needed to escape, and she needed to do it soon; either before Harry and Ron came to save her and risk their necks… or before she died.

A metallic rattling noise cut through the silence and a small bar of artificial light appeared under the door crack at the other side of the room. Hermione swallowed her pride and backed away as far as she could go so as to avoid any unnecessary pain.

She watched closely as a small rectangular bulk interrupted the beam of yellowish light, followed by a dark shadow that stayed there for two seconds, before it flittered away.

The rectangular bulk was still there though, and Hermione was curious to see what it was. But something held her back.

What if they were trying to poison her somehow?

Why would they poison her though? She had heard Bellatix and Lucius before: she was being held hostage. Surely that didn't entail poisoning her?

Maybe they wouldn't kill me with the poison, but the poison could make me wish for death…

Hermione gasped upon thinking that thought and she shivered involuntarily.

While she knew that it wasn't silly to assume that they would poison her; it was absolutely _stupid _to not even think about investigating the mysterious bulk that had appeared in the space under the door.

Gathering her courage, the witch slowly stood and inched her way over to the bulk. Her thoughts were running rapid, imagining all sorts of unsavory things. She imagined her head being blown off twice, her body spasming in pain five times and she even imagined simply dropping dead on more than one occasion.

She didn't want to die; she still had so much left to do.

She still needed to lift her parents' memories, hunt for Horcruxes with Harry and Ron… and that was when Hermione fell to the floor, her emotions at that time simply too heavy for her to carry.

Harry and Ron… what would they do without her? She had had a plan, she had packed; she had done _everything_ to help them. She had all of the books ready and she had charmed her rucksack with an undetectable extension charm so that it could hold an impossible number of items.

She had sacrificed nearly _everything_ so that she could help Harry.

And now she sat on a cold stone floor in Malfoy Manor of all places, with only her thoughts for company.

Did they miss her? Hermione knew that they would be missing her already; surely they would at least think that something were up. If so, how long would it take for them to find her? She hoped that it wouldn't take too long, because she didn't know how long she could put up with the sleeping on stone floors and the torture that Bellatrix would surely continue giving her.

Her stomach grumbled furiously and she decided that she needed some form of sustenance soon, before she became too empty and started wasting away.

She couldn't let herself become skeletal, because becoming skeletal meant being physically weaker; it meant becoming far too tired and feeling the already cold air that seeped around the dungeons much more harshly.

No, losing what body weight she had was simply out of the question and she silently thanked Mrs. Weasley and the motherly witches' cooking for fattening her up as soon as she had arrived at The Burrow some weeks ago.

Standing up albeit shakily again, she made her way over to the bulk that sat halfway in, halfway out of the room. Peering down, she saw that it was a thick rectangular metallic tray and on it, there was a mushy mixture composing of-from what she could see in the limited light- an odd green looking mush; either peas or cabbage, she wasn't sure and something white-ish brown- maybe a mixture of potatoes and beans.

She tentatively bent down and picked up the tray of mush, not surprised in the slightest that it was so cold it felt like it had been refrigerated for weeks.

That was when she smelt the putrid smell and realized that the ingredients they used to make the mush had already gone off.

They had tried to feed her off-vegetables. That thought alone made her feel nauseas.

It was inhumane, it was gross and it simply shouldn't be done. She could become ill and die; she could catch diseases if her immunity was lowered in this place. Heck, she could die by simply tasting that putrid mush. Feeling disgusted by the indecency of feeding her what resembled pig squalor, she placed the tray back down on the floor under the door and crossed her arms, vowing not to eat anything until they gave her something better.

It was a bold decision at best (and probably a bit stupid) but Hermione figured that they wouldn't try to kill her and if she refused to eat, maybe they would be forced into giving her something slightly better, just to keep her alive.

She became sick of standing so she slowly dropped to the floor, being careful not to hit a sore spot, and softly sat on the ground. She zipped the Harry-sized jacket up and pulled the loose fabric closely around her so that she wouldn't get colder if she fell asleep.

It was then that the light outside switched off and she was bathed in complete darkness yet again.

DMHG

The Burrow  
><em>July 28th, 1997<em>

The Burrow had been sapped of any cheerfulness that had decided to remain after most of the group had arrived back safely after the big 'escape'.

When Kingsley had arrived back at The Burrow alone, Ginny had feared the worst. When her fears were confirmed, she had watched as two teenage boys visibly broke in front of her- a sight which she wasn't inclined to see again.

It was in the early hours of the morning when Kingsley had arrived. Ginny had woken up on the same tattered couch she had been sitting on the night before and was surprised to find that she had her head on Harry's shoulder and that his arm was hanging limply over her own shoulders. She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, imagining that they had fallen asleep knowing that they were like this and that they were still together, despite everything.

Of course, this wasn't the truth and Ginny hated lying to anyone, let alone herself.

She took his arm from around her shoulders and he mumbled in his sleep, turning over so that he was facing her. She smiled at him and even risked a small peck on his forehead.

She really, really missed Harry Potter, even if she wouldn't admit it to anyone but herself.

She heard the front door to her home open and a wave of excitement washed through her; it was Hermione! It would have to be!

She jumped up off of the couch, accidentally kicking Harry in the process (who grumbled and swore under his breath) and ran out into the kitchen, her face already hurting from the grin that was spread across it.

What she saw when she got into the kitchen however, was Kingsley talking in low tones to her mother, who had a trembling hand over her mouth and was watching the dark skinned man with wide eyes.

Mrs. Weasley looked about ready to shatter and so Ginny walked over to her, looking at Kingsley questioningly, and placed a comforting arm around her mothers' shoulders.

It was never a nice site to see your very own mother cry, even though it didn't happen much. When it did happen however, Ginny felt a pang at her heart. It was almost as if when her mother felt pain, she somehow felt pain as well.

Kingsley ceased his talking as soon as he saw Ginny enter the kitchen and Ginny noticed that he seemed withdrawn. His face lacked the calm and serene expression that the Order had come to know only too well and in its place was an eerie blankness, one reminiscent of Sirius Black when Ginny had first met him.

That poor man had been living in Azkaban for far too long, and had become withdrawn from the world around him. Sure, he could still talk and use manners like a normal person, but there was something about him, something small that made you think he had already snapped but was waiting…

Ginny pulled herself out of her thoughts with a forceful tug and occupied herself by comforting her mother, who was still on the verge of tears.

That was when another thought occurred to the girl, and she looked from Kingsley back to her mother and again, daring one of them to confirm the worst.

It was a silent question that she asked the man when she looked him in the eyes and when he gave her a barely-there nod, she collapsed to the ground and cried like she had never cried before.

Ginny was a strong girl- it came with having role models like her older brothers, but when something like this happened, when something so horrible and twisted happened such as this; Ginny Weasley cracked, like she always knew she would if the situation ever arose.

So she fell to the tiled floor of The Burrow's kitchen, shuddering violently with tears dribbling down her face. She placed her crossed arms on her knees and rocked back and forth, moaning as if she were in some kind of physical pain.

At the sound of Ginny's distress and Mrs. Weasley's incoherent sobbing, Harry and Ron walked out of the living room together and upon seeing Kingsley standing in the doorway with the two distressed women, the boys already knew what had happened.

Harry's jaw locked in place, his eyes watered and he fiddled with the edge of his jacket. Silently but stiffly, he made his way upstairs, not bothering to comfort anyone else in the room. The light- any remaining happiness- had drained from his features and he already looked like a hollow version of himself. Hollow Harry.

You could distinctly see the way that the gears were turning in his head: he already believed that it was his fault that Hermione wasn't there. If he hadn't agreed to the stupid plan in the first place, if he hadn't given them the hair... she probably still even looked like him. She went not looking like herself, but a completely other person.

Ron was another story altogether, he gritted his teeth and let out one single inhuman sob before he stiffened his shoulders and walked as fast as he could out the door, shoving past Kingsley as hard as he could manage.

It his head, it was Kingsley's fault. He was the protector, he was the one who hadn't done his job right. He was supposed to have brought her home…

A door slammed upstairs and the Weasley twins Fred and George came down hurriedly, accidentally kicking Crookshanks on their way who was having a snooze. The cat meowed indignantly and scurried off, not before slashing at the boys with its claws.

"What happened?" asked Fred who was slightly breathless by this time having just sprinted down a long staircase.

No one answered, but that was confirmation enough for them both.

The boys oddly did the same thing and bit their lips before they continued down into the kitchen and each held one of the women who were still in hysterics.

It was disconcerting to see two such strong women in tears, but they had shoved that feeling aside and were both holding them, trying to soothe what little of the hurt they could.

Everyone handled their grief in different ways, but the pain they felt was the same, for in their minds, Hermione Granger was dead.

* * *

><p>It was sometime later that everyone in The Burrow sat in the living room in silence.<p>

Harry had been coaxed from his room by Mrs. Weasley, even though it had taken a good half hour. He still hadn't spoken to anyone and he tended to tear up every now and then, but he never sobbed. He fiddled endlessly with the sleeve of his jacket and kept on crossing and uncrossing his legs, as if his body simply needed to do _something_.

Ginny had reverted to sniffles, now that she was over the initial shock of her almost-sister's death.

She now sat on the floor beside Fred, holding onto one of Hermione's jumpers that the girl had left behind. She found comfort in the material as it still carried Hermione's scent and some bits of her hair. Ginny did feel a little bit weird holding onto her friend's jacket at first but it comforted her and for that she was very grateful, so she shoved the feeling of creepiness away.

Ron had come back inside only recently and was sitting by himself in a far corner of the room. Ginny had never seen her brother act so strange, but then again, it was to be expected. She knew that he had harbored deep feelings for Hermione and she could only guess at how painful it felt to have his heart breaking.

To her, Ron had always seemed like the strong one, the brother who could become your rock if you needed him to be. Sure, he wasn't all that emotional and didn't handle others' emotions well, but that was because he found it hard to relate to people. Of course, the red-head predicted that that would all change soon; because this was probably the most emotional he had ever been in his whole life.

It was a terrible sight to see at best, watching a teenager who has finally discovered love, break.

She had yet to see him cry, but the distress he felt was so evident if you even gave him a single glance.

Mrs. Weasley had been cooking for the past hour or so, baking as many treats as she could possibly manage. She had cried a tiny bit on Georges shoulder when the boy had gone to comfort her, but had quickly reverted to the kitchen where she had immediately started baking pastries.

Everyone knew that this was the 'Mrs. Weasley' way of coping, and so they didn't question it, they simply let her be.

Ginny offered to help, but the older witch had asked her to go and check on the boys instead.

Ginny hadn't checked on the boys at all.

She knew that more than anything, they would want to be left alone after all, it's what she probably would have wanted too had she been filled with testosterone.

Mr. Weasley sat in the big armchair near the fireplace which was closest to where Ron was sitting on the other side of the room.

Mrs. Weasley had broken the news to him about Hermione's death. He had ran a hand through his thinning hair and had promptly hugged his wife. He had never been awfully close to Hermione, but she was still someone who had been a constant in his life, much like his own children, and her death had hit him hard.

He had spent the day checking on the boys (being another male, they would have some form of understanding between them) , but much like he expected, they didn't really talk.

Harry had simply sat there on the edge of his bed, looking straight ahead and Ron had been much the same way. However Ron did talk, and when he spoke, his voice had been so…_emotionless_. It stabbed at Mr. Weasley's to hear his son use such a hollow voice and it was in that moment he knew exactly what Ron had felt for Hermione.

_Mr. Weasley stood in the doorframe that lead out onto the front porch, looking at his youngest son who sat there with red rimmed eyes and fresh tear tracks trailing down his face. He seemed almost like the embodiment of sadness and Mr. Weasley felt his fatherly instinct reach out and long to wrap itself around his son, just to comfort him in whatever way possible._

_His legs eventually lead him forward to where the teenager sat and he sat down beside the boy resting, his palms in his lap. If experience had taught him anything, it was that Ron didn't like to be touched when he was feeling upset._

_They both sat there in silence for a short time until he felt Ron shuddering beside him._

_He looked over at the boy and saw that his head was down and his shoulders were slumped forward, almost like he was cringing away from a curse or hex._

_But Mr. Weasley knew better._

_He continued to sit there in silence next to his son and let the shuddering takes its course until Ron became completely still and silent, although continuing to be hunched over._

_The man was having a hard time thinking of something to say to his son. He didn't want to approach the topic of Hermione's death, but it was impossible not to. It was the Elephant in the room, so to speak. It was the darkness that fell over them, it was the invisible third person standing between them. Hermione's death was all they couldn't talk about but all they needed to talk about; it was the hardest, most unpleasant thing to do, but it needed to be done. Any idiot could see that._

_But Ron surprised him five minutes later by speaking first, lifelessly, still staring at his lap._

_"I did love her," he said, taking a deep breath as if to steady himself. "I love her still."_

_Mr. Weasley nodded, knowing that Ron had harbored at least some feelings for the girl._

_He wanted to offer his son some fatherly advice, anything at all that would help him heal, but he was left with nothing. He himself had never felt the feeling of complete hopelessness that only came with losing the one you loved the most. Molly had always been there, right from his time at Hogwarts. She was his first and only love; and she was still right there with him now; in the kitchen, to be exact._

_How could he possibly help Ron if he couldn't relate to what his youngest son was going through?_

_"She's amazing, you know," Ron still sounded hollow and it pained Mr. Weasley to hear that tone (or lack thereof)."I wanted to marry her one day. She'd probably work in the Ministry, working for The Department For The Protection Of Magical Creatures. She would throw herself into her work and she wouldn't stop, but I'd love her anyway. I'd love her no matter what she chose to do."_

_Mr. Weasley felt that same emotion stab at his chest and the need to comfort his son took over. Carefully, he put an arm around the boy's shoulders and felt a wave of relief wash over him when Ron relaxed and leaned into his father's side._

George sat on the sofa next to Harry and was oddly quiet. It was too soon to joke and even if he did manage to make one, no one would laugh.

He watched as his mother walked into the room and sat down on the arm chair next to his father and pick up her knitting.

No one really knew what to say.

They were all in the room with the topic of Hermione floating over their heads like a foreboding cloud, and no-one knew how to breach the subject.

Kingsley had left earlier that day, excusing himself so that he could return to the ministry and report the death of Mad-eye Moody.

In George's opinion, it was sad that the death of Hermione hit them harder than the death of Mad-eye, but in a way, it was only to be expected. No one really knew the paranoid auror like they knew Hermione Granger. She was a sister to them all; a part of their family. If you imagined a family to be a giant tree, it was like one of the said tree's major branches being severed.

Of course, a tree's limbs could grow back and that thought alone made George try to re-think his analogy.

It was safe to say that for the most part, the Weasley household was in mourning, and everyone knew things would be this way for quite some time.

DMHG

Malfoy Manor  
><em>July 28th, 1997<br>__8:13 pm_

Pain.

Bone crippling, unrelenting pure torture immobilized her body which was thrashing around uncontrollably without her consent. She could feel the hard cement underneath her, she could feel her nails digging into her palms, drawing blood, but most of all she could feel that stabbing pain that made her feel like each and every one of her nerve endings were on fire.

She spasmed out of control and the pain only stopped for a second until it resumed when a cruel voice screamed "_Crucio_!"

Hermione couldn't breathe, for it hurt too much and her throat was dry from screaming. She couldn't talk and when she tried, her voice came out in a humiliating croak.

Bellatrix ended the curse with a quick flourish of her wand and she stepped over Hermione's bleeding body, staring down in glee at the witches tear stained face.

"Has the Mudblood broken yet?" she asked, wiping a stray piece of wild hair from her pallid face.

Hermione couldn't move to acknowledge that she heard the brutal witch for her body was still twitching uncontrollably as the remnants of the curse slowly leaked from her system. It was a horrible position to be in, as Bellatrix always expected an answer and when she received none, she would force it out.

"Not going to speak?" she asked Hermione with a false sweet tone. She cocked her head to the side as she examined Hermione's cuts and bruises from that short distance. Hermione felt the tip of the witches' wand prod at her face and she felt the tiniest inkling of pain stab at her cheek. It was the place where Hermione had scratched accidentally whilst she hadn't been in control of her body.

Hermione still didn't answer the woman- because she couldn't- and instead braced herself for the next bout of torture.

"So be it then," said Bellatrix as she raised her wand, pointing it directly at Hermione's chest. "Cruci-,"

But the curse was cut short as a loud band was heard from the direction of the staircase behind the door where the light suddenly flickered.

Bellatrix's black eyes widened and she flittered away from Hermione, to the door where the bushy-haired witch heard the woman say one word that made her blood run chillingly cold.

"Master."

You couldn't ever doubt the presence of Lord Voldemort; he was like a giant snake in a cage filled with mice. Even with your back turned, you would still be able to feel that prickling sensation as it travelled up your spine to the back of your neck where it would stay, warning you that there was someone or something there that was dangerous and was going to hurt you…

No, you couldn't ever mistake the presence of Lord Voldemort.

Hermione felt as her body stiffened further and closed her eyes in a moment of pure fear, not wanting to see the eyes of the monster. She could almost certainly feel his eyes watching her, trailing over her as he walked closer to his victim.

Hermione trembled, hoping that this wouldn't be one of the last moments that she ever lived.

Then she heard the sound of his voice, and it was almost like someone had thrown a pail of ice water over her head. Coldness trickled down her spine and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Far too petrified with fear to open her eyes, she listened to the cold, calculating voice of a killer.

"So this is the Mudblood," his voice was high pitched and breathless, so much so that it simply didn't seem human.

"Yes, Milord we thought she would be of use," Bellatrix fawned to her master, and Hermione imagined the maniac bowing down to the horrible man.

"So it seems," Hermione felt the feeling of a cold fleshy mass on her face and she resisted the urge to be sick. She knew that it was him; she just knew that it was him who put his disgusting, dirty foot on her face. He'd probably recently stepped in the blood of his victims, heck, he could've stepped in _anything_, and now that foot, was on _her face_. "Keep her here, Bellatrix. Do with her whatever you please… we'll need to lure Potter here with her."

"Of course, Milord."

With that, Hermione felt the foot leave her face and she dared to open her eyes.

What a quick meeting…far too quick, in fact…

She saw the corner of a black robe flitter out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't have any time to think about it because suddenly Bellatrix was in her field of vision, standing directly over the top of her.

A cruel smile was plastered over her face and her maniacal hair went in every which-way.

She licked her lips and hissed in an awful voice that Hermione would never forget for as long as she lived, "_Crucio_."

* * *

><p>Draco Malfoy never saw himself as a particularly emotional person. No, he rather saw himself as a sensible person, one who could quite easily take care of their emotions by locking them away in different vaults in his head. He didn't bother them much, and they didn't bother him either.<p>

But for some reason tonight, as he lay down in his bed, his emotions threatened to break through the carefully erected walls of his heart and mind.

He felt much like he had only a few of months ago when he had helped the Deatheaters gain entry to Hogwarts. That night, he felt like a robot, doing only what he knew would save the life of his parents.

He was on autopilot as he walked down those constricting stone corridors. He felt like the breath was being squeezed from his body as the horror he felt inside threatened to break loose, but he simply kept on going.

He imagined himself as a soldier of sorts, and in a way, he already was. He had taken the Dark Mark and now, despite everything, he was one of _them_.

He had swallowed his fear and let the Deatheaters loose. He was the reason Dumbledore was dead.

He may not have cast the curse, but had Draco not done what he did, had he not cowered from the Dark Lord, a man may still be alive today. Not a particularly sane man, but a man nonetheless.

Draco felt the familiar taste of bile rise in his throat and he swallowed it, hoping that he wouldn't start vomiting again. After the events on the Astronomy Tower, Draco- although too ashamed to admit it- had vomited many times that same night.

He closed his eyes again and rolled onto his side in his satin sheets. He pulled the covers up to his chin and exhaled, willing himself to fall asleep and just ignore the sound of the torturous screams emanating from the dungeons below his bedroom.

He knew who it was and he was horrified that she was being kept a prisoner in his house.

She, the brains of the Golden Trio, the Mudblooded know-it-all, was being kept a _prisoner_ in his own home. He didn't particularly care for her, but hadn't she been tortured enough already? Even she deserved a break.

He covered his ears with his hands and concentrated on counting.

Counting was something that his mother had taught him to help calm his nerves. It was part of the reason as to why he was so good at Arthrimancy. Numbers weren't like anything else in his life; everything else kept changing, his relationships, his family, school, lessons, absolutely everything to do with his life was constantly changing and sometimes, sometimes he felt like screaming for some sense of control. Numbers gave him that control. Numbers were unchanging; they stayed the same no matter what you did. Four would always be four and eight would always be eight.

He timesed the numbers together, he added the numbers together and he eventually took most of them off so that he could count into the negatives.

Eventually, he drifted to sleep, the screams of Hermione Granger no more than a dull ring in his ears.

**A/N: I hope that you guys are satisfied with the length of this chapter and I hope that this story isn't dragging. When I read back through it I pretend to be you guys… and I can't really picture the scenes that I've written even though I had an image in my head the whole time.**

**Also, I'm not particularly happy with the way that I have portrayed Ginny. She seems to be a bit too weak but I honestly don't know how to 'toughen her up'.**

**Once again, thank you all for reading!**  
><strong>Oh one more tiny little thing: If anyone is interested in Beta-ing this story, then please do PM me and we can discuss the matter :)<strong>


	3. Chapter Three: According to Ginny

**Chapter Three  
><strong>**According to Ginny**

Malfoy Manor  
><em>August 4<em>_th__, 1997  
><em>_7:05 am_

The light rattling sound that signaled the arrival of food punctuated the heavy air of the dungeon.

According to Hermione's calculations (which really meant: According to the amount of straw Hermione had found and placed in a cleared corner), she had been in this place for approximately five days.

There was no sunlight, so she was unable to judge just how much time had passed via that particular means. She couldn't exactly make a mark in the wall like the muggles did in prison movies either, due to the protective spells and enchantments that surrounded the dungeon. Digging out parts of the wall had been among the very first things that she had tried after she realized that if she was going to keep sane, she would need a means to measure time. She had used a small stone that had fallen loose from one of the walls and had sharpened it on the floor before attempting to make a gash in the rock-work. However as soon as she made a gash, the wall healed itself.

It was not a minute later after that discovery that she developed a new system in which she would take a piece of the straw that was littered on the floor of the Dungeon, and place it in the corner that she had cleared out. One piece of straw equaled one day; she just had to make sure that she didn't accidentally mess it up when Bellatrix came in to torture her.

Already Hermione had noticed that a routine took place.

First, she would wake up to the sound of the tray of food rattling under the door.

After eating whatever she could stomach (the food had gotten slightly better after her so-called hunger strike, although it tasted putrid), she would go over to the cleared corner and mark off a day.

After that, she would occupy herself with brain exercises such as reciting her Hogwarts textbooks (usually DADA) and thinking of escape plans. So far the only means of escape that she could come up with was simply attacking the person came to the door to give her food. Of course, Hermione still couldn't _reach_ that person, but regardless of the fact that she couldn't reach them, she was still wandless.

The next thing in the routine that would happen was the absolute worst part of Hermione's day.

Bellatrix.

Bellatrix would saunter in there after quite some time and would greet Hermione with a quick, unimaginative _Crucio_ to the chest. After that, Hermione would be quivering like a pathetic lump on the ground while the insane woman fired questions at her, looking for information on The Order.

It's completely impossible to speak while under the Cruciatus Curse (not that Hermione would have spoken anyway), so Bellatrix continued torturing her until she saw fit to finish.

Once or twice it was Lucius who tortured the poor girl, but he wasn't nearly as sadistic as Bellatrix. Whilst Bellatrix tortured Hermione for entertainment, Lucius seemed to torture her because he _had_ to.

Hermione could almost see a glimmer of humanity in him (if she looked close enough) sometimes when he walked into the room; his shoulders were hunched and his demeanor seemed slightly off. If one thing was for certain, it was that Lucius Malfoy no longer looked like the highly regarded pure-blood supremacist that he used to be.

He now seemed to be merrily an apparition of his past self; translucent to the point by which he barely existed.

After the inevitable torture took place, Hermione would close her eyes and try to control the unnerving jerking of her body and drift off into an uneasy sleep.

Then the process would start all over again.

She really did like the routine, though, no matter how mundane (and at times, horrifying) it seemed. In an unfamiliar world such as the one she was pulled into, one that existed purely and literally of torture and uncertainty, the small comfort of familiarity somehow came to soothe her.

It was in that moment that Hermione heard the blessed metallic tingle and she rushed over to the door, her stomach already growling with need.

Upon seeing the dark rectangle shape, she took it as politely as a starving person could and immediately began shoveling the mush into her mouth. The taste was disgusting as always, with a consistency of off-milk and a taste like rotting vegetables, but she ate it anyway, because it was probably the best food that she'd be having for a while.

She licked the tray clean and her stomach rumbled again, already needing more sustenance.

Hermione made sure that there was no more mush left on the tray before she placed it back underneath the doorway so that the person on the outside could collect it.

That was another one of the consistencies that she clung to; the food delivery. Although she couldn't see the person, she was sure that it was the same one. They always brought her the food in what she assumed to be the morning, and then waited quietly at the door until Hermione had finished with it. Once they picked up the tray, they would always walk up the stairs (at least, that's how Hermione pictured it) and turn off a light so that the Dungeon was soaked in a mild darkness. After five days, Hermione's eyes had adjusted to the bleak lighting, and so she could see a lot better than what she could initially see before.

After the Dungeon was bathed in the dark again, Hermione stood up and walked over to the far cleared corner of the place, where she picked up a stick of straw and placed it next to the other five that were already there.

Six days. Hermione had been in this Dungeon for a whole six days already.

She sighed and wondered about her friends.

She didn't want to think it, but there was no way that she simply _couldn't_ think it. She had fallen off the back of a Thestral from an incredible height due to the fact that two Death Eaters were firing Killing Curses at her. She wasn't a complete idiot, and she knew that her friends weren't either. If the Death Eaters hadn't contacted them already, then Hermione had no doubt in her mind that they thought she was dead. After all, if it had been Ginny or one of the boys, it was the exact conclusion that she would have drawn.

She didn't want to imagine their grief while she thought of her friends, but it was truly inevitable; in this place, thinking of friends lead to feeling grief. It was a catch-twenty-two situation.

She knew that Harry would take it all upon himself, because he always did that. He always believed the smallest of mishaps to be his fault if he were connected to them in one way or another. It was simply part of what made him Harry, but it was a rather annoying part, even if she admitted it herself.

Ginny would have been inconsolable. Hermione knew Ginny like a sister, and she knew that despite the tough font Ginny gave off, the poor girl was soft inside and would be absolutely distressed. The bushy-haired witch loved Ginny to pieces and didn't want to imagine the heart ache that Ginny was going through.

_Speaking of heart ache…_

Hermione's heart broke a little when she thought about Ron. Ron, the twat, was among the most infuriating people she knew. Sure he had the emotional range of a teaspoon (something she had once held against him) but she knew that it was just part of who he was. Sometimes he could be so obtuse, such as the time when he and Lavender Brown decided to flaunt themselves around the school and he didn't even notice Hermione's hurt. He could be a git, but she loved him for it.

She knew that someone as emotionally…_inept_… as him wouldn't even attempt to make sense of his feelings, so he probably wouldn't be able to control them properly. If she knew Ron like she thought she did, then she could easily bet that he could become somewhat violent. At least, she imagined that it was within his capacity.

She wondered what it would be like when she finally got out of there. She would surely fly into the waiting arms of Ron-as if life were one big corny movie-and they would be happy. Sometimes she wished that it was that simple and that they weren't actually in a war.

Oh how the world would be if Voldemort didn't exist…

DMHG

The Burrow  
><em>August 4<em>_th__, 1997  
><em>_12:28 pm_

Ginny stood waiting outside the door to Harry and Ron's shared bedroom. Her fist was raised, ready to knock on the worn wood. She exhaled gently, steeling herself for what she was about to do. She figured that it was probably easier that she talk to Harry first, considering he was the less violent of the two as she had begun to notice that Ron stabbed the dinner that Mrs. Weasley cooked with fervor and if anyone brought up the wedding, he would stomp angrily upstairs into the bedroom. Mrs. Weasley always sighed and muttered something about 'Ron holding in too much' and sometimes 'boys', but Ginny honestly thought that it went much deeper than that.

Her brother Ron- in nature- wasn't a very violent person… but he hadn't learned how to deal and make sense of grief and despair, so she figured that he would be unknowingly channeling those emotions into anger- something that was comforting because it was somewhat familiar.

That was why she had decided to approach the lesser of two disasters first: Harry.

She knocked once, twice, three times. When she didn't hear anything at all, she slowly twisted the door knob and opened the door, stepping inside and shutting it carefully behind her.

The whole room was darkened with the curtains closed and the light off. It took her eyes a short moment to adjust to the sudden change of contrast, but when they did, she found Harry sitting on the bed against the far wall.

He sat there staring straight ahead, much like a statue. He had that same look on his face that he had started to wear seven days ago when the news of Hermione's death had hit them. The only difference his face had from that horrible day was the dark stubble that outlined his pronounced jaw.

It was obvious to Ginny- to anyone, really- that he hadn't been taking care of himself.

Ginny stepped closer to him and he didn't move an inch. She was half expecting him to shift a little, or least give her some idea that he knew she was there.

"Harry?" she asked tentatively, stepping closer still and reaching out a hand. However upon realizing that she was reaching out as if to touch him, she dropped her arm and stood as still as she could.

Yet he didn't acknowledge her still, and instead kept staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

It was much the reaction that she had expected, because he had been giving everyone else the same one for days, but she still felt the tiniest bit of hurt trickle into her system.

"Harry?" she asked again, and then decided that it would be a better idea if she got closer to him. She slowly inched herself down onto the bed beside him and sat there awkwardly, waiting for any reaction at all. But when he didn't make a single move yet again, she became annoyed.

Sure everyone handled their grief in different ways, but this was absolutely ridiculous. They had all suffered the same blow and most of them had started to handle their sadness affectively. Sure they cried, but they did it less often now. They were healing because they _wanted_ to be healed. Wallowing in misery all day wasn't going to do anything but make you look like a dimwit. And according to Ginny, Harry very much looked like a dimwit.

Deciding to take matters further, she placed a hand on her ex boyfriend, waiting to see what he would do. "Harry, can you hear me?" she asked, rubbing small circles into his back slowly like she used to back at Hogwarts.

She saw him relax the tiniest bit, but then he stiffened again and she let out a huff of frustration, ceasing the ministrations on his back.

He did look rather stupid, she decided, sitting there like he was so deep in his misery that the world around him had stopped spinning. This was certainly not the boy that she had crushed on for so long. No, this person was the shadow of the man he used to be.

She decided that she wouldn't sugarcoat things for him. If being sweet and careful wasn't going to work, then surely barging straight through his walls was the right way to go. She steeled herself, nearly hating herself for what she was about to say, but quickly put her fears to rest as she figured that it would be better for him in the long run. "You look pathetic, Harry," she started, speaking to the back of his head. "We all miss Hermione, but you're the only one who's acting like its hit them the hardest." she finished and waited for some kind of reaction, and was rewarded when she heard him suck in a deep breath.

She waited for a minute before she heard his voice; it cracked a bit and sounded dry because he hadn't used it in so long. "If Hermione weren't involved," he began, pausing a tiny bit every now and then. "Then she would still be alive."

Ginny got over the initial shock of hearing his voice rather fast and mulled over what he had said; typical Harry with his Hero Complex.

"No way," she replied, voice full of sarcasm. "What do you mean Hermione wouldn't be dead if she hadn't been involved? I wouldn't have ever known, thanks for enlightening me, Potter."

With that having been said, she realized just how angry she was with Harry: Harry sodding Potter, the-boy-who-lived-to-be-a-massive-pain-in-the-arse-with-his-stupid-need-to-save-every-flipping-thing-that-moved.

She had honestly had it with him. For the past few days, he had done nothing but mope around the house, not accepting any comfort from anyone. It was almost like he enjoyed the attention he was receiving, although Ginny knew that weren't the case.

Well, she certainly wasn't going to have any more of it.

She lifted herself off the bed, making sure she that she jostled him a tiny bit, and stalked out the bedroom, slamming the door in her wake.

_See what you make of that_, she thought as she wandered downstairs.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Weasley had always baked when she was emotional.<p>

When she was stressed, she baked. When she was angry, she baked. When she was upset, she baked. When she was happy, she baked.

She figured that everyone had some sort of action they persisted in when they were emotional. Some people were emotional eaters, some were emotional exercisers. Mrs. Weasley just happened to be an emotional baker, and it was something that she didn't want to change.

The excessive baking always paid off in the end, anyway. She already had six mouths to feed on normal night not including herself and considering the fact that they almost always had guests, a little bit of extra food never went wasted.

Baking was simply a helpful outlet for her emotions, and for that she was grateful.

The past seven days had been a whirlwind for the woman. She had been stressing out over the death of Hermione, who was like a daughter to her, and then she was also stressing out over the wedding, which would be happening in a week's time.

Poor Hermione, she thought, that poor girl had died so young and had yet to truly live. She felt her heart give a painful tug as she remembered the late girl.

Mrs. Weasley had truly loved Hermione Granger as a second daughter and wished more than anything that she could have said that the girl wasn't going. Of course, Hermione had been of age and as such, was able to make her own decisions. Had she been any younger, even a day younger, the motherly witch would have said no.

But she knew that she couldn't think about the girl for too long, because she had a wedding to prepare for. Her son Bill was getting married in a week's time and she knew that the young couple didn't need to have the festivities on their special day dampened. She also needed to prepare for Harry's birthday, come to think of it… she sighed and went to take the plateful of chocolate brownies out of the oven. She was simply under too much stress.

She decided that she would need to plan a small memorial service for Hermione, before Harry's birthday which would be in three days. She knew that it was what they all needed and maybe it would help them heal. She knew certain that Ron would benefit. Her youngest son had a bad habit of letting his emotions get out of his control- it was to be expected of a sheltered life, but it was still frowned upon nonetheless.

She cracked two eggs into the round bowl with practiced hands and began to stir in a cupful of flour before she added a batch of melted chocolate.

Yes, she would most certainly need to start planning the memorial service for the dear girl.

DMHG

Malfoy Manor  
><em>August 4<em>_th__, 1997  
><em>_6:32 pm_

"_Protego_," Hermione whispered, flicking an invisible wand. "_Scruge,"_, "_Rictumsempra,", "Engorgio."_

She was practicing the first spells that flittered to the forefront of her mind. After all, she didn't know how long she was going to be spending in this dark, dank place and on the off chance that she did end up getting out; she didn't want to find herself rusty.

She muttered more spells, pretending to hold her vine wand in her hand as she muttered the incantations. She missed her wand, and she feared that it had been broken. Of course, she didn't really expect for it to be whole and being kept safely with the Deatheaters.

"_Relashio,", "Repairo,", "Obliviate." _With that last spell, the bushy haired witch felt as if the weight of the world suddenly appeared on her shoulders. Her parents were still out there in Australia, unknowing that they even had a daughter.

But it was for their own good, Hermione decided, it was to ensure their safety.

The sounds of shouting interrupted her thoughts and she scurried over to the back wall, fearful of how horrible these people sounded. Their voices were raised and they sounded dangerous, as if they wanted to inflict danger on each other. Deatheaters and arguments didn't go well together, in her opinion and she didn't fancy getting hurt before she had to.

Despite the ingrained _muffliato_ charm on the door, Hermione could clearly hear the sounds of their voices as they came closer and closer to her. She refused to shut her eyes again though, already hating herself for doing so in the presence of Lord Voldemort. Where in the world had her Gryffindor courage gone?

"_You have been doing _what_ to her_?" said a familiar drawl that Hermione instantly recognized as belonging to her old potions professor, Severus Snape. His voice wasn't raised very high, he simply sounded shocked, astounded. She didn't care how shocked he sounded though. Why would he be? That old bat had callously murdered her old Headmaster. He had _murdered_.

_But why would he be so shocked?_ That small voice entered her consciousness and she thought back to what he had said only a moment ago. He did sound rather shocked. In fact, he sounded angry-shocked. That certainly couldn't be a good thing.

"I told you already Severus!" Bellatrix. The bout of bravery drained from her system and the young witch shuddered violently, a knee jerk reaction to hearing the insane woman's voice. "The Dark Lord told me that she's mine to do what I please!"

The two voices got closer and closer until they were just outside the door. She drew her knees into her chest and waited, dreading the torture that she was bound to receive…maybe it would be a double-dose this time because it had started earlier? Hermione had always assumed that Bellatrix stopped the torture at the exact same time each night…

"It matters not," the potions master drawled. "She's a young girl and-"

"She's a Mudblood!" The deranged witch hissed. Hermione saw the shadows under the door flicker which she assumed meant that Bellatrix had made a sudden movement. Perhaps she had simply flicked her hair out of her beady black eyes, or maybe she had grabbed her wand and now her hand was on the door.

Hermione didn't hear Snape speak again, instead, she heard lower voices, completely shielded by the charm. Just when she started to relax after a while and stretch out a little, ready to resume her brain activities, her heart nearly stopped when the door suddenly flung open, revealing Bellatrix Lestrange in all of her horrifying glory.

"I bet you heard that, didn't you Mudblood?" she hissed, stomping across the room toward Hermione, brandishing her wand in front of her. "I bet you enjoyed the fact that someone here's looking out for you, didn't you?" As if waiting for a reply, she paused in the middle of the room and looked at the horrendous talon-like nails that graced her fingers. "Well I have news for you though Mudblood, oh yes I do," she cackled then, throwing her head backwards in mirth. "I've been appointed to you by the Dark Lord and _no one_," she punctuated each word with a step toward the cowering girl. "_No one_ gets," Step. "In the way," Step. "Of the Dark Lord." She was so close to Hermione now and the young witch was willing herself to keep her eyes open, telling herself that she wasn't afraid…except that she was.

Hermione watched in horror as the older witch's mouth twisted into an evil smirk, and felt her mind become numb as she heard that dreadful word yet again.

"_Crucio_."

DMHG

The Burrow  
><em>August 4<em>_th__, 1997  
><em>_6:32 pm (Dinner Time)_

The mood at the burrow hadn't shifted much throughout the day; in fact, it almost felt as if all time and progression had stopped for the family altogether.

Ever since the news of Hermione's death a week ago, the occupants of The Burrow had fallen (albeit uneasily) into a familiar, comfortable pattern.

They would all get up at roughly the same time (except for Ron, who had taken to sleeping-in until midday). Afterwards, they would all sit around the kitchen table in which they would make small talk among themselves until Mrs. Weasley finished cooking breakfast.

During breakfast, the only sounds that could be heard would be that of chewing and slurping (sometimes a curse muttered by Mr. Weasley if his tea was too hot). Afterwards Mrs. Weasley would take some of the leftovers and place them onto a separate plate for Ron to eat when he finally woke up.

During the day everyone would be left to do their own devices.

Mrs. Weasley would cook or knit.

Mr. Weasley would go to the Ministry and work on his projects.

Ron would either still be sleeping or he would be in the garden.

Harry always end up staring into the distance for a prolonged amount of time and Ginny would try to practice Quidditch.

By dinner time, everyone was back at the large table, eating the tasty dinner that Mrs. Weasley had cooked up and attempting to make small-talk.

However it was on this night that things were going to change.

Mrs. Weasley, after finishing off the treacle tarts, had sat down on her patched arm chair in the living room with a piece of parchment and quill and had started to make arrangements for Hermione's memorial service.

She had teared up quite a few times writing things down, as she had expected, but didn't let it phase her. She simply knew that she had to get through the lists as it would help everyone at The Burrow in the long run.

So far she had made a list of places where she wanted to place a small headstone for Hermione- or at the very least- a statue of some sort. She felt that it was very important that Hermione have some form of 'resting place', even if they didn't have her body. She wanted a place where they could be reminded of her in spirit.

It had taken her a good couple of hours to write down everything she thought they would need. She checked the list thrice just to make sure that she hadn't forgotten anything and when she was certain that she had made all of the right plans, she folded up the piece of paper and placed it in the pocket of her worn apron, already feeling rather accomplished.

Now she sat next to Arthur at the Dinner Table, ready make her announcement. She fingered the paper nervously, not knowing exactly how their kids were going to take it. She told Arthur about an hour beforehand and he had agreed that it was the right thing to do, which had made her feel slightly better about bringing the topic up.

She looked around at everyone who was eating in silence and it was in that moment she decided that the only way to go was forward.

She took the piece of parchment out of her pocket and held it in her hands above the table top. With one last glance at their glum faces she began, "I think that it's time we had a proper memorial service for Hermione." Everyone at the table except for Arthur stopped dead. Harry closed his eyes for a second and hardened his jaw before he placed his fork beside his plate and started to massage his temples. Ginny hesitated a bit in taking a bite and her lip trembled, indicating that she was on the verge of crying again. Ron however froze and slowly raised his eyes to meet his mothers. Giving her an incredulous look he slammed his fists against the table and bit his bottom lip so hard that it started to turn white.

It was a moment before anyone spoke and for a fleeting second, Mrs. Weasley thought that she would have to speak again. That was until Ron took a deep breath and growled:

"What do you mean _memorial service_?" he mimicked his mother's tone of voice and suddenly stood up, knocking the table, making his drink splatter everywhere. Everyone was too shocked to do anything, although Ginny looked ready to kill. "She's been d-dead for a bloody _week_! It's too soon!"

Finding her voice, Mrs. Weasley calmly said, "Ron, please do sit down and just listen-"

"I don't want-"

"Maybe you don't want to, but you need to."

"Ron, listen to your mother." Mr. Weasley said, looking pointedly at the boy.

Ron's face had taken on a bright shade of red- almost as red as his hair- and stared at his mother as if he had never seen her before, he opened up his mouth, a retort on the tip of his tongue but thought the better of it and sat down, seething.

"As I was saying," Mrs. Weasley started. "I think that it's time we held a service for her- just a small one- so that we can help each other remember her and the person that she was."

Everyone was silent again, but the motherly witch felt her husband's hand on her knee and she turned to smile at him, silently thanking him for his support.

Ginny nodded in agreeance and continued to eat, but not before shooting Ron a glare, silently admonishing him for his outburst.

Harry looked…indifferent. But Mrs. Weasley knew that would be the case.

Maybe by tomorrow, after the service, he might just start to heal.

DMHG

Malfoy Manor  
><em>August 4<em>_th__, 1997  
><em>_7:00 pm _

"So you're saying that you, Narcissa, are aware of the…events that are taking place in your home every night?" Severus Snape drawled slowly to Narcissa Malfoy, who was perched delicately upon a cream colored loveseat in her private chambers.

"I am saying, Severus," she said, spitting his name in disdain. "That I am unable to do anything about it as it currently stands." She sniffed daintily and raised her chin in an aristocratic manner.

Severus huffed and wiped a nonexistent bead of sweat from his forehead before he began that ceaseless pacing again. Narcissa felt the beginnings of a headache loom behind her eyes, watching the bat-like man pace and so she closed them, leaning her head back on the neck rest.

"You are an impossible woman," he began, pacing harder still. "There is a young girl, being tortured in your _Dungeon_ every night by your deranged sister and what do you do about it? Nothing!"

Narcissa cocked one of her perfectly arched brows questioningly at the man, somewhat entertained by his little outburst. It was always a sight to see when Severus became angry, after all, it didn't happen often. She ignored the fact that he had mentioned her sister and the tone of his voice that implied he thought that _she_ was at fault.

She didn't like the situation any better than he did. She may have been a pureblood supremacist in her earlier years, but she was now a matured woman. The world was no longer a collage of black and white with clear cut, dividing lines. No, she now saw the world with its shades of grey and she had long ago decided that it was for the best. However she was in far too deep. What, with being married to a Deatheater and having the Dark Lord in her own home every fortnight, she couldn't exactly start openly changing her ways now, could she?

"I am well aware that I have done nothing _yet,_" she said carefully, choosing her words with preciseness. "However, I _do _plan of doing _something_ in the near future." She then crossed her knees over and smoothed out the small wrinkles that had formed in her skirt with the movement.

Severus stopped his pacing and stalked over the lady, coming to stand over her. She looked up at him daringly and her lips parted into a Malfoy famous smirk when she saw that she had won their little spat.

Severus paused for a moment, looking as if he were contemplating something different when his lips pressed into a hard line.

"What about Draco?" he asked, resuming his pacing again much to Narcissa's dismay. "The Dark Lord has seen his mind, he knows that Draco didn't kill Albus. He's going to punish him." The words were delivered harshly, but with a hint of regret that somehow softened the blow.

Narcissa felt her heart give a painful flop when she heard her only son's name. She knew all about what had happened on the Astronomy tower that fateful night and why, and secretly she was very proud of her son for not killing the Headmaster. What she wasn't happy about- in fact, what she was positively _terrified_ about-was the fact that The Dark Lord would want revenge on her son, he would be looking to punish him.

Despite many witches and wizards in the magical society thinking otherwise, Narcissa truly did care for and love her son.

He was her everything. He was the ropes that tied her to life, he was the wind that blew the clouds away; he was the one that she had raised and cared for since he was only the tiniest little baby. Draco Malfoy was, in fact, _still_ her baby, and she treated him as such.

She remembered the days when he was in his first year at Hogwarts and she would send him sweets, much to her husband's agitation… speaking of husband, Narcissa thought to her dear Lucius, the one man that she had ever loved. He was their protector and despite being the sometimes terrifying man he was on his worst days, Narcissa still loved him very much.

But the Malfoy family as it was was stuck in a rut of sorts. They couldn't escape the Dark Lord, because they were simply in too deep to even consider doing so.

"I know that, Severus." She replied in a clipped tone. "That is why I'm waiting for the right moment…Draco and the girl will escape this place together."

**A/N: So there you guys have it! Just a quick note: I personally hate reading a lot of stories with many POV's, but I found it necessary to include them. Let's face it; this story would be b-o-r-i-n-g if it were simply in Hermione's POV at this point in time. Plus, I figured that it would be nice to read about how the Weasley's are coping with Hermione's supposed 'death'.  
><strong>**If you're confused about Narcissa: don't be :P I didn't see that it was fit to explain her alliance at this stage in time.  
><strong>**Wow, what can I say? I had a hard time trying to gather up the courage to post this chapter, because I'm not really 'feeling' it at the moment. However, I had already written this chapter ages ago and I put so much effort into it that I couldn't possibly bring myself **_**not**_** to post it. Laziness? Nah, it feels like more of a sentimental thing :P  
><strong>**By the way, please don't think this is going to be one of those cliché done-a-thousand-times stories. Things are not always as they seem, and I certainly have many plans for this Fic in the future :)**

**Review Replies:**

**Tookkia: THANK YOU! I was completely blown away by the fact that you took so much time and effort to leave me such a fantastic well-rounded concrit review! I wrote down all of the important points that you mentioned so that I can now easily look at them whenever I'm writing to help me along (seriously, it's all written down on a sticky note on the edge of my computer screen so that I'm always looking at it) :)I really appreciate your opinions on Ginny and I must say that it certainly gave me a lot of confidence!  
><strong>**I also do agree with you 100% on the capitalization, however when I started writing this, I re-read a few chapters of **_**Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows**_** so that I could get a grasp on J.K Rowling's style. I noticed that she used capitalizations which I thought was odd, but I still borrowed it :P But I'll try to stop using it from now on :)  
><strong>**Honestly, don't feel bad about hurting my feelings or anything, because honesty is honesty and I will always favor that over false praise :) There are so many points that you made, but I don't think that I should write it all down in a review reply because let's face it, it'd probably equal over a thousand words and frankly, I don't want to mess with people's heads :P They'll read the story and think "wow, this is really short" then reach the reviews and be like: 'o.O' :P I honestly cannot express how truly grateful I am and once again, I would just like to say thank you :) You're amazing :)  
><strong>**(Oh, if you would like to review the second chapter, feel free! It would definitely help if you could, but its okay if you don't have the time or you don't want to) :)**

**Alannalove1990: Thank you very much! I'm very happy that you feel this is an interesting concept :)Hahaha Voldy? I wish! :P Unfortunately you probably won't see any Voldemort/Hermione action in this fic, but when I get the hang of Fanfiction and keeping characters 'in-character' I'm very interested in writing one! **

**STAR-KID-AWESOME: Wow thank you so much! I never really thought about me having a writing style before, but hey, you learn something new every day, right? ;P**

**Someone Awesome: Thank you for your review! I'm very pleased that you like it! :)**

**Anonymous Reviewers:**

**Zoe: Thank you! It makes me feel totally UH-MAY-ZING when I'm told that I'm doing well :P **

**Pythonator: Wow thank you! That really, truly means so much to me! Hopefully my writing doesn't slowly get sloppy :P**

**o0o0o: Thank you very much for your review! It really made me feel relaxed knowing that I wasn't under a lot of pressure to get another chapter out quickly :P**

**lalala: Suspense? Wow thank you! It wasn't truly my intention to make it suspenseful, but there you go! :P Hopefully you're still reading this and that I didn't ruin anything with this chapter :D**


	4. Chapter Four: In Memoriam

**A/N: Just a quick but MASSIVE thank you to Tookkia who Beta'd this chapter! Honestly, it was simply incredible to see how much time and effort she put into correcting this, and for that, I thank her from the bottom of my heart :) So thank you! **

**Chapter Four  
><strong>**In Memoriam **

"_Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality."_

_-Emily Dickinson_

The Burrow

_August 5th, 1997_

It was a warm day at The Burrow. Sunny skies, twittering birds, the running of the nearby channel and the buzzing of bees among wild flowers: all familiar sounds of summer for Ottery St. Catchpole. Of course, the cheerful sounds that surrounded the Weasley family home conflicted shamelessly with the dampening atmosphere behind the closed doors.

Inside the rickety house, a family was mourning.

One such member was Ron Weasley, who sat at the edge of his bed, glaring out the open window at the mocking bright environment. He hated it. He hated how the skies could be so sunny when he himself felt like a desolate storm. He hated how the birds chattered freely without a care in the world when he couldn't even remember the last time he had a pleasant conversation. He hated the flowing of the channel because he felt like his life had stopped flowing altogether and more than anything, he hated the bees. He didn't know why he did, but the bees annoyed him greatly. Maybe it was the incessant buzzing that was getting to him, or maybe it was due to the fact that they happily went about their business once a year every year and nothing seemed to get in their way. It didn't matter if the love of their life died or anything, they just went about their happy little business_ pollinating flowers. _Yes, even with the largest war the Wizarding world had ever seen currently raging, the idiotic bugs still had the nerve to go about their lovely little lives. It was pathetic, really.

Yes, Ron absolutely, _positively_ despised the bees.

In fact, he had been despising everything lately. Right from his muddy trainers which were now too small for him, to how long his sister took in the shower each morning. Every little thing, every insignificant, miniscule thing made him hate the world just that tiny bit more.

Sometimes, he felt like lashing out at everyone, making them feel as bad as he did. He wanted them to know that he was outraged; he wanted them to know that he was distressed. He wanted them to _feel _the anger he felt.

Anger.

Anger was red. It was constantly moving. It was hot and it was all-consuming. Anger didn't allow you to sit down and seethe. No, anger put things into motion. Anger could get things done.

In fact, the last thing he wanted to do was sit down… and yet here he was, sitting down on the edge of his bed, feeling animosity toward bees.

He scraped a hand through his hair in agitation as his mind started to drift slowly toward _why_ he was feeling so hateful. Over the last week, he had been suppressing his memories when they came. It was easier to function when he didn't have to think of _her_. When he didn't have to think of her beautiful smile, warm eyes and rich laughter; the way she would hit him playfully when he said something insensitive and would reprimand him when he didn't think before he acted. He missed the way she would sit down in the Library back at Hogwarts and compulsively study for hours at a time, even when she really didn't need to…she truly was perfect. But now, she was gone.

Realizing that his thoughts had drifted to her, he gritted his teeth and punched the pillow that was next to him, wishing the pillow were harder so that it felt somewhat real; something that could feel the same physical pain that he felt.

He refused to think of her. He refused to think of anything to do with her. That bloody cat was bad enough- having to look at its ugly face day in, day out; but thoughts, they were unwelcome. They were forbidden.

Now he really wanted to take his anger out on something, some_one_. He wanted everyone to know that he was hurting. He wanted to make them hurt as well, somehow.

These thoughts, these emotions, they were driving him _mad._

Suddenly, He was pulled from his thoughts upon hearing a set of muffled footsteps from outside his door and he silently dared them to near him, to get closer…

The knob on his door turned slowly and his head snapped in its direction.

"Ron?" A timid Ginny stood in the doorway, toeing the ground nervously. She looked directly at him and the corner of her mouth tilted up in a sympathetic half-smile. "It's time."

"Yeah, of course it's _time_," he spat at her, feeling his anger rise. "Of course it's gotta be bloody time already." He squeezed the sheets in his fists again, needing something to take his mind off what was happening today, the _one_ _thing_ he had feared more than anything, the _one thing_ he simply didn't want, and it was going to happen. "Couldn't wait a bit, could they? No, they had to go and make it _today_. Of all the days in a week-"

"I do understand Ron but-"Ginny tried, taking a small step toward him, arms slightly raised. But when he shot her a venomous look, she stopped advancing and stood still, watching him with a worried eyes.

"Oh no," he cut in, twisting the sheets. "Believe me, you don't understand."

She cocked her brow at him and crossed her arms across her chest. "Do you want a bet?" She started, resuming her advancement toward him. "Do you really believe that I don't understand? That I haven't- haven't _hurt_ like you and all the others have? Do you want to bet that I haven't cried every _damn night_ over this? Do you want- do you want to bet that I haven't _suffered _in the slightest when I see her somewhere? She's all around this place, Ronald!" She yelled exasperatedly, throwing her arms out to the side. "I found one of her books last night, you know! I saw it, and I was just about to ask her _why_ she left it there, but you know what?" she cried, her voice wobbling. "_She_. _Wasn't_. _There_!"

Ron sat there for a second, his face reddening. How dare she turn against him when he had no one, how dare she speak out like that, how dare she even think- even come _close_ to thinking that she had it worse. How dare she. She knew nothing, absolutely nothing. She didn't see, she didn't _feel_ how much he was tearing up on the inside, how he felt like a cat had scratched him from the inside out. She didn't know how he could feel his heart slowly disintegrating every second of the day. She didn't know, she couldn't relate. No one could.

_How dare she. _

He stood up quickly, red hot anger pulsing through his veins like lava in a volcano, rushing to the surface, ready to erupt…

"You just don't get it, do you Ginny?" He said slowly, feeling fire spread through his fingertips. He wanted to grab, he wanted to break. "You don't get _anything!" _He took a careful, measured step toward his younger sister, every small thing that annoyed him about her coming to the forefront of his mind. Like little whispers, they floated around him, urging him on. Oh how he wanted to make her pay for everything, for every _little thing_. "You don't feel it. You don't feel the _coldness_. You don't feel the _emptiness_. You don't feel so numb that you can pinch yourself and not feel a thing. You don't know Ginny, because you still have everything, every_one_. You still have Harry, don't you? You have Mum, Fred, George, Dad. You know _nothing_ of what I'm going through." His voice broke and he clenched his fists, relishing the anger, the resentment that washed over him. This was what he needed, after all this time, he needed an outlet.

Ginny's eyes narrowed at him and she opened her mouth, ready to speak, "You think that I don't know, but I do Ron! I do! Harry hasn't been here, he's been _gone_, practically comatose except for the past few hours. You want to know what he told me? He said, '_Isn't the weather nice?'_. We're broken up Ron! I have been _alone_ as well!"

Ron gave her an incredulous look, breathing harshly out through his mouth. He stepped toward her, finding that the anger gave his movement fluidity and it felt_ invigorating_.

"Alone? You know nothing of being alone!" He dug his nails into the palms of his hands, not sure what was stopping him from doing what he wanted to do the most. He didn't like it one bit, he didn't like being held back in any way. "What do you know of any-" He stopped mid sentence just as he heard a voice in the hallway outside the door. It was a scratchy voice, one devoid of almost all emotion. It was so unfamiliar to him and yet completely familiar. He felt his anger recede just a fraction, having been caught off-guard.

"Have you got him yet Gin-" An already weak voice trailed off as he stepped into the room and met the eyes of Ron. Upon really seeing Harry for the first time in a week, he was shocked to see that his best mate looked as if he hadn't slept or seen sunlight in years.

Dark bruise-like shadows marred his lower eye-lids and his skin had taken on a sickly pallor. It was apparent to Ron that Harry had probably been wallowing in regret for a good portion of the past week, and he felt a tiny inkling of relief wash over him.

At least Harry was feeling bad about what had happened to Hermione, after all, it _was_ partially his fault.

And with that one thought, Ron felt his fingers give a fleeting twitch and the familiar burn wash through him. He needed to do _something_; he needed to _grab_ something. Nothing else existed to him in the world: it was simply him and the fury that coursed through his veins.

That, and Harry Potter.

Herm- _she_ died because of him. She died because he didn't. She died because she was protecting _him_. Her life, everything, it all ended because of one bastard who couldn't fight for himself. Harry Potter. The boy who should've died already, but hadn't because he's just that _great_.

Now just looking at him, Ron felt his temper rise and bubble until he felt that his vehemence had reached its peak. One word, one action from Harry and he would explode. He didn't want to rein it in, he wanted to let loose. He wanted to lash out and make his 'friend' feel worse. He needed someone else to suffer…someone who deserved it…

"Harry, tell Mum I'll be there in a minute." Ginny said, giving Ron an odd look. She didn't turn to face Harry and just as he was turning around to leave, Ron felt it, that overflow he had been waiting oh so patiently for.

"So that's it then?" he goaded, allowing the red-hot anger to take control of his tongue. "After all that you're just going to leave and go on your merry way?"

Very slowly, Harry turned around, his green eyes flashing dangerously. Ginny had looked back at her ex-boyfriend and a strange look of bewilderment mixed with relief was now plastered to her face.

Ron didn't care, though, because now in his mind it was just him and Harry; just him and the boy who was responsible for the death of _his_ loved one.

"Just leave it, Ron." Harry said in a tense voice.

"Why should I?" Ron replied, taking a step toward him. Oh, he needed this…

"Just look at you, you're not in your right mind-"

"Oh and you're able to judge that, are you? Calling the kettle black?"

"Ron, stop it." Ginny said, taking a small step in front of Harry. She was giving her brother a look of unease, as if she could sense that something inside him was close to snapping.

"Why should I?" He mocked, stepping closer still. He had already reached the edge of the rug, just a few more steps and he'd be close enough to make Harry _regret_.

"Because this isn't you." She inched another fraction in front of Harry, protecting him from her brother's fury. She knew Ron; she knew exactly what he was like.

"And how would you know that?"

"She's your sister, that's how she knows." Harry lightly pushed his way past Ginny and further into the room until he was face to face with Ron.

Both of the boys stared at each other, not moving even though all Ron wanted to do was show him how truly incensed he was. All he wanted was some sort of reaction. He wanted to make Harry feel absolutely awful.

"Well isn't this different!" Ron jibed sarcastically. "You're actually going to stand up this time and take it instead of standing behind someone else and letting them take care of it."

"Take what? Ron I don't under-"

Then, Ron Weasley snapped.

Harry had no time to react as his red-headed friend launched himself at him, eyes blazing. Ron's fist connected with Harry's face just as Ginny's arms went around his waist, pulling him back off of the other boy.

But she needn't worry, because as soon as Ron was pulled back, the fight had already ebbed its way from his body. His face fell and his mouth slackened when he saw Harry fall backwards through the door frame. A look of shame passed over his features and he fell to the ground heavily, pulling Ginny – who was still trying to hold him back) to the floor behind him.

"Ron! Ron gerrof!" she mumbled, attempting to push his body off of hers. He heard her complaints and moved, allowing her to stand up and run over to Harry, who was only just sitting up, dabbing at his cut lip. She softly hit Harry's hand away from his face and tilted his head back, inspecting the cut.

Ron couldn't believe what he had done.

The fury had dissolved from his system and instead he was left with an odd sort of hollowness, one that spread throughout his body, making his skin feel as if it were merely a hard shell.

Why had he hit Harry?

Ron couldn't even remember why he had hit his best friend. What exactly had Harry done wrong? Of course it wasn't Harry's fault that she was dead. Of course he shouldn't have to regret it. He had nothing to do with her death at all.

An unfamiliar feeling came over him again, one that made him realize that he had been a big git and that he needed to apologise. But just how did you apologise to someone that you had only punched seconds before in an act of pure madness?

Slowly pulling himself up off the floor, he made his way over to Harry who was starting to stand while trying to shake Ginny off. Ron hadn't done this in a long time…how were you supposed to apologise again?

"Harry I-" he started, before he was cut off by Ginny.

"Save it, Ron." She sighed, finally letting go of Harry who was dusting himself off.

Ignoring his sister he tried again. Harry _had_ to know how sorry he was. "Look, mate-"

"Ron just," Harry started, cutting him off. "just not now, okay?"

Ron nodded his head and watched as Harry left the room, his hunched shoulders showing the teen just how hurt he truly was.

"What was that all about?"

Ginny. Ron had forgotten that she was still even in the room. She had turned around to face him now and stood there with her hands on her hips- something that made her look _a lot_ like their mother.

Ron honestly answered, "I don't know."

She cast him a stunned expression, one that told him she didn't believe him one bit. "How can you _not_ know what that was all about?" She hissed. "You just _punched_ Harry!"

He looked down in shame, fully regretting his previous actions. What in the world had come over him?

"I don't know-"

"Don't say that you don't know! You can't just punch someone and then not know why!"

"But it's the truth Gin! I don't know why I punched him!"

Her eyes flashed and she took a step toward him. Ron resisted the urge to run; his sister could be scary when she wanted to be. "I swear, Ronald, if you don't give me a good enough reason in ten seconds then I'll-"

"Ron and Ginny! Hurry up and get here right now or we'll start without you!" Their mother's agitated voice echoed up the stairway and the two looked at each other, both becoming pale underneath their trademark Weasley freckles. It was time.

Ron swallowed his fear and replaced it instead with whatever bravery he could muster. Despite how much he didn't want to, despite just how upset it made him feel, he was going to say goodbye to the girl he had loved… still loved.

"We're coming, Mum!" Ginny yelled down the stairs before looking at her brother again. A look of understanding crossed her features when she saw him, and she gave him a sympathetic smile. "Ready?" she asked, holding her hand out toward him.

"Not nearly." He replied, accepting her hand and allowing her to pull him behind her.

* * *

><p>The sun was shining down on the small group of people that gathered together underneath one of the large oak trees that surrounded The Burrow. They made a loose semi circle around a smoothly carved rock, one which had only a few words carved intricately onto it's surface, compliments to Fred, George and Mr. Weasley.<p>

_**In Loving Memory of:**_

_**Hermione Jean Granger **_

_**The Smartest Witch of her Age,**_

_**May you Rest In Peace, angel. **_

The words were surrounded by magically engraved roses which swayed softly whenever a magical person looked at them. They were Hermione's favorite flower.

No one really knew what to say; they had been standing there in silence ever since Ron and Ginny had walked out of the home five minutes ago.

Harry was still staring at the stone, a look of loss spread across his features. It was a look that matched what every single person in that circle was feeling only too well.

Hermione was a part of their family. Even in death, she was still such a big part of what made them, _them_.

"You know," began Ginny, breaking the silence. Everyone turned to look at her with slightly red eyes and she stood higher, knowing that talking was the right way to go. "Hermione was like the sister I never had." She heard her mother sniffle and she turned to the tearing woman, offering a small smile. Looking back at the stone, she closed her eyes and fiddled with the button on her cardigan. "She was always there to give me 'sagely' advice when I needed it the most." She chuckled a tiny bit when she recalled how she had once viewed Hermione. Back in her first year, Ginny had thought Hermione to be her personal guidance counselor; one who knew all the answers to life's questions-mostly questions that revolved around a certain boy with intense green eyes, but still. "I will miss her."

Mrs. Weasley choked a little and walked over to her daughter, giving her a stifling hug. Ginny wrapped her arms around her mother, giving her a pat on the back.

"Yeah, I'll miss her too." Said George, chiming in. "I'll miss her bossy ways."

Fred gave his brother a disbelieving look and said: "Seriously mate? Of all the things to miss about her, you're going to miss her '_bossy ways'_?"

After a moment of apparent deep thought, George shook his head and smiled. "You're right," he amended. "I'll miss her built-in copy of _Hogwarts: a History_."

Mrs. Weasley's head snapped in their direction and she gave them both an icy glare. "Of all the insensitive things to say-"

"Relax, Mum-" began Fred.

"She had a good sense of humor as well-" said George.

"We think." Fred finished, raising his eye brows at his brother.

Mrs. Weasley's glare relented a little and she turned away, looking back toward the stone.

"But she was a good person." Fred amended. "Even though she _was_ rather bossy-"

"Fred…" warned Mrs. Weasley.

"-and _nothing_ could get past her, no matter how clever we were-"

"-She was a part of the family and we got a lot of joy out of messing with her." George finished.

There was a deep silence for a short moment as everyone gathered their thoughts when Mr. Weasley spoke.

"You know," began Mr. Weasley. "I'll miss asking her about Muggles and seeing her face light up when she realized that she needed to explain something.

"Yeah, I remember that." said Ginny, smiling at the memory. "She got this sort of happiness about her; like she could do absolutely anything."

"She was always so eager, wasn't she?" asked Mrs. Weasley who now had an arm around Ginny. "It was like she lived for knowledge."

"She did in a way." Harry said for the first time. Everyone gave him a curious look, except for Ron, who was still staring absently ahead. "That was her top priority: get the highest mark and be top of the class." He smiled, recalling just how enthusiastic she was. "She didn't even try to downplay it: it was who she was."

"We would have failed about ten times without her, eh, Harry?" Ron said, smirking. It was the first time he had spoken in a group setting since they had learned of her death.

Throughout the 'service', Ron had thought about his feelings; which wasn't something that he did very often at all. He knew that she wasn't coming back and the only way she would truly live on would be in memory. It pained him to think it, but it was the truth and despite everything that life had taught him about 'some truths are better left untold', this was one of those times where the truth had to be known, even if it pained him to admit it.

The anger that had consumed him earlier that day had vanished completely and Ron was thankful for it. He wasn't a cruel, violent person like the anger had made him out to be. No, he was simply Ron Weasley: Keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, red head and best friend of Harry Potter.

He wasn't a monster.

"Yeah, we would've." Harry smiled, looking up at Ron from his crouched position beside the stone.

Ron licked his lips, looking down at the stone.

Hermione Granger.

The words written on the stone didn't do her justice, he decided. No, she was much more than just 'the smartest witch of her age'. She was kind-hearted, strong, confident, intelligent, enthusiastic and resourceful.

She was his friend, and he loved her.

There was a large place in his heart, one that would probably never be filled again. It was a big, hollowed-out place and every time he thought of it, he felt incredibly lonely. However, it was a place that reminded him that she had once existed and because of that, he was thankful for the feeling of abandonment. It meant that she was once real, and that he had once really known a girl like her.

He had his memories: the good and the bad, and he carried them close to the hole in his heart so that whenever he felt upset and deserted and thought that he was going to break down, he could easily take the memories and like a bandage, plaster up the hole.

She was always with him, after all, in his heart.

_Long live Hermione Granger._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I understand that there isn't a lot of Dramione at this point... okay, so there is absolutely no Dramione yet. But, in my opinion these things take time. Hermione _was_ kidnapped and is now being tortured in the dungeon at Malfoy Manor, of course she isn't going to fall in love with the son (and nephew) of her captor(s).  
>Just know that I have the whole thing planned out aaaaaaaaaaaaaand that they most definitely will have the opppurtunity to 'love' soon ;) Patience is a virtue :P :P<br>One more thing: I can't believe that I actually have 15 reviews! Wow, it is simply amazing because I really didn't believe that I'd have over 3 for the first 3 chapters! :P I would just like to thank everyone who has left a review so far. Your reviews- believe it or not- give me that extra bit of motivation and confidence to produce nicer chapters. I don't really know why it is, I guess in a way it's something of a reward because a lot of effort has gone into this story and it's wonderful to see that people are actually enjoying it and taking the time to read it :) :) So once again, thank you :)**

**Review Replies:**  
><strong>(All signed replies are PM-ed because it's easier to manage :P)<strong>

**J-J-Jessieee: Why thank you! I certainly hope that I can keep it up too! :P**

**Dramioneluvr: Hahaha I won't say exactly when, but just know that something definitely will happen in future chapters ;) Draco/Hermione paring for a reason :P**


	5. Chapter Five: To be a Malfoy

**Chapter Five  
><strong>**To be a Malfoy**

Knockturn Alley  
><em>August 5th, 1997<br>_9:34 am

Knockturn Alley had always been considerably cold-even during the summer- which suited the dank place and its reputation rather well indeed. By word of mouth, Knockturn Alley was known among the families of Wizarding Britain as a quite '_dishevelled, feral place'_; if terms were to be placed lightly.

However that wasn't the only reputation that the place seemed to hold- Knockturn Alley was _dark_. Yes, it was dark in the respect that there wasn't much sun light at all due to the tightly closed-in towering buildings that lined the thin cobble-stoned streets allowing only the thinnest rays of sunlight to filter through, but it wasn't the lack of light that delved the area into true darkness. No, it was the abundance of Dark magic.

Slimy and crawling, the Dark magic had a habit of seeping under ones skin. You didn't have to be a wizard to know that something…_odd_… was present. At first you felt the danger. Your heart would start to pound and the hairs on the back of your neck would stand on end. You would feel like running, but from _what_, you wouldn't know. Invisible ice would trickle down your back and to your fingers, travelling through each and every vein until you almost became frozen to the spot.

You would be scared; petrified, but you wouldn't know _why_. Dark magic was for the experienced; for those who knew exactly what they were doing.

So it was no wonder why anyone who ventured down those twisty lanes was considered a dodgy character.

An opinion that suited the likes of a certain blond all too well.

He was walking rather pompously as always, nose in the air with his long pale blond hair pulled into a loose ponytail. At first glance, you could quite easily see that he was an aristocratic man- if not by his appearance, then surely by the way he behaved.

He swaggered as he went, casting short, uncaring glances toward anyone that he passed. After all, only the foulest, roughest people lurked around the alley and he, being the person he was, couldn't afford to be associated with such scum...even if he _was_ a rather frequent visitor to the area.

He suddenly heard a quiet scuffle sound behind him, followed by a muttered explicative. He sighed but continued, his paces deliberately steady. Seventeen already and his son still managed to massacre something as simple as walking.

"Mind your step, Draco." He said in the most cold, unemotional voice that he could muster. Malfoys certainly weren't known to the general public as being- dare he say it- _fluffy_, and he certainly didn't want that observation to change anytime soon.

"Sorry father." His son murmured.

Lucius gritted his teeth as he aimed for some form of self control; he absolutely hated it when his son- his _only_ son- spoke in such a disgustingly _forlorn_ tone of voice. Malfoys were anything but forlorn. His son really ought to know that by now, especially after having grown up with the proper etiquette.

"Watch your tone." He replied evenly, weeding out all emotions yet again- setting the bar for Draco. Cold and calculating; it was the Malfoy way.

He didn't hear a peep out of his son for the rest of the trip down Knockturn Alley, which suited him just fine; he wasn't in a particularly chatty mood. In fact, he never was in a particularly chatty mood. 'Chatting' (such an in-proper term!) was beneath him. _Conversing_, however, was different story.

The duo passed by many grotesque looking shops on their way, almost all of them selling objects long ago outlawed by the Ministry.

This is why he often took his time to venture down the alley-ways, because this place right here, was the one place where the law didn't-_couldn't_ reach. After having been imprisoned in Azkaban for a good few months previously, Lucius had developed a deep dislike for the system.

The people of Knockturn Alley were hardly respectable citizens. However, there was an unspoken truce between them- one that even he, the Malfoy head, chose to abide by. 'Business was never done, and words were never exchanged.' Which wasn't the truth, of course, but it was never mentioned.

Seeing that he was almost at his destination, he took a swift left turn at the end of the cobblestoned path -ignoring a wizard selling what looked to be poisoned apples on the corner- and found himself in front of an old dilapidated shop called _Borgin and Burke_.

Taking a second to glance around behind him, to make sure that no strange or psychopathic -It wasn't out of the norm for the area- person was following them, he opened up the gritty door with a tingle and stepped into the cold, dusty shop.

He glanced around at the mounds of dark objects placed haphazardly throughout the limited floor-space. It was messy, but with his keen eye, he could immediately tell that it was a phenomenon known as _organised chaos_; something that he had become critically aware of during Draco's prepubescent years. Honestly, he hadn't thought it was possible to create such a clutter and yet still know where everything was put...

He walked up to the front desk, briefly admiring a small ancient looking wooden box along the way.

"Don't touch anything." He said to his son, who- he rightfully assumed- was behind him, admiring the many dark objects that crowded the way to the counter. After little effort, he did, in fact, reach the front counter. He coughed arrogantly and tilted his chin up a tad higher as he waited for the owner to arrive.

Whilee waited, he felt an uncharacteristic wave of nervousness rush into the pit of his stomach as he wondered whether or not Borgin- the owner- had actually acquired the object that he sought. If Borgin didn't have it... he just barely suppressed the urge to visibly shudder as he imagined the consequences of failing to complete a task.

His Master...the Dark Lord... he wouldn't be happy. No, he would be _furious_. The wrath would surely last for days and they would be punished in the most horrible way possible. Images of curses and their effects flashed through his mind: blistered skin melting off bone, veins and capillaries bursting all at once, skin tightening so greatly that bones would break and organs would squish...

He was pulled from his thoughts suddenly when a squat man covered from head to foot in a substance that looked oddly like grease appeared behind the grotty counter. He reeked of sweat and rotted meat- a smell which was incredibly nauseating, even to a seasoned Death Eater such as Lucius Malfoy who had seen- and consequently _smelt_- many horrifying things whilst on the job.

Upon seeing the infamous blond, the man did a double take and- as if to tidy his appearance- wiped his gritty hands on the sides of his trousers before bravely walking forward and offering the Malfoy a chubby hand.

"Mr. Malfoy." he greeted in a nasally voice, his outstretched hand filling the much needed space between them. Lucius gave the offered hand a pointed look, but kept his own gripped around his cane-like wand holster. He certainly would not be touching such filth. Instead, he looked up from the offending hand and gave the man in front of him a cold nod in greeting. "Borgin." He replied.

Seeing that Lucius was not going to shake hands with him, the little man retracted his hand and offered the same cold nod in return, albeit a bit hastily. "How can I be of service, sir?" he asked hastily, glancing quickly behind Lucius at- Lucius was sure- the teenage boy who was admiring the many valuables scattered about the store.

It was now or never. He placed his hand into the pocket of his expensive black robes and pulled out a tiny piece of parchment, which he offered to Borgin. "I require this." He said, handing the slip over to the stumpy wizard.

Borgin wasted no time in snatching the slip from his loyal customer and proceeded to read its contents. It was only five seconds later when the store keeper looked up at Lucius with a furrowed brow. "Are you sure?" he asked in a low voice, leaning closer to the blond who immediately moved backwards.

"What sort of a question-" Lucius began before a sudden crash pulsated around the densely-packed shop.

Both of the men were quick to whip their wands out and point them toward the source of the noise... where they soon saw a very red-faced Draco standing, trying his hardest to pull his hand out of a set of skeletal human jaws.

Lucius became maddened as he watched his son struggle for the tiniest second before he stalked over to the boy and roughly grabbed his flaying arm.

"_Keep still_." He growled before casting a spell at the display and watching them clatter upon the wooden floor. He took no time at all in grabbing the teen's arms and holding them tightly.

He watched in satisfaction as his sons face lost all colour and quickly became a ghostly white; it was safe to say that Draco Malfoy was absolutely _terrified_.

"F-father-" he managed to stutter before Lucius shushed him callously with a tight pinch to the skin on the boys wrist.

"_You are not a child_," he began angrily, annunciating all his words precisely so that the meaning wasn't lost. "_When I tell you not to touch, I mean it."_ He gave his son one last pinch for good measure and loosened his grip.

"I-," Draco began.

"_Not another word_," Lucius hissed, tightening his grip when he realised that his message had yet to sink in. "_You're shaming the Malfoy name_." He noticed with satisfaction that Draco's jaw hardened and knew that he had hit the weak spot.

The Malfoy name; the one thing his son respected without question, besides his mother.

Draco nodded mutely, his cheeks pinking lightly.

Lucius resisted yet another urge to pinch him again when he saw the blush. Malfoys certainly _didn't_ blush. However, he reminded himself rather grudgingly that Draco was, in fact, half Narcissa- and Narcissa definitely blushed.

"Pick it up." He growled, indicating the set of jaws which lay on the ground. He gave Draco's wrists a final sharp squeeze and turned abruptly on his heel, stalking over to where Borgin was still standing beside the counter.

How dare his son make such a scene? How dare his son- his only son, mind- dare defy his orders? He specifically told Draco not to touch, and what did he do? He went ahead and touched! It was absolutely _ridiculous_ behaviour; he hadn't raised his son to play the fool.

No, Draco was to be a mature, responsible, ambitious man. He was to take care of the Malfoy family affairs and be head of the estate. Draco was to be a leader. Of course, with the way that his son had acted just before, he wouldn't at all have been surprised if the Malfoy family utterly crumbled under his control. Oh how his own father would curse the day he was born if Draco- his only heir- led the family into tragedy...

He pulled himself from his thoughts sharply and started in a low tone so that his son wouldn't overhear: "As I was saying before that incredibly_ bothersome _interruption," he murmured, indicating with his head to where Draco stood behind him. "What do you mean by 'are you sure'?"

"Sir this- this _item_ the power it possesses..." Borgin trailed off on a wheeze. He brought a closed fist to his mouth and coughed gruffly. After ten seconds however, the man was still sputtering and Lucius was becoming annoyed. He flicked his wand toward the storekeeper's throat and muttered a quick spell under his breath. Borgin's coughing fit immediately ceased, much to his bewilderment.

"Better?" the aristocrat asked mildly.

"Much." Replied Borgin, nodding his thanks as he wiped the fist he had coughed into on his trouser leg.

Lucius suppressed the urge to gag and wondered how one could simply be that filthy to wipe their disgusting hands all over their own clothes...whatever happened to personal hygiene?

"As you were saying...?" Lucius pressed, signalling with his hand for the man to continue.

"Yes, right, sorry sir," he started, lowering his voice and leaning toward Lucius- much to the blond's revulsion- yet again. "As I was saying, sir, this item is _powerful_. Its ancient- one of a kind, in fact- and it comes from Egypt so you know just how rare and powerful it is. Bloody advanced warlocks, that lot were. They didn't have to hide from the Muggles either, you know, the Muggles loved all that magic- especially after the pyramids were built with it-"

"Yes, and about the item?" Lucius cut in abruptly, sensing that the man was starting to drivel.

Borgin shook his head once, as if to clear it, and focused instead on his customer, who was starting to look incredibly bored.

"Yeah- sorry sir- as I was saying, the item in question-" the shopkeeper began in a lower voice, looking around him as if he expected someone to be eavesdropping. " -is a book; a cursed book."

Intrigued, Lucius quirked an eyebrow and leaned in closer, somehow coming to ignore the man's rancid stench, if only for a short while. "A book? How cursed?" the blond inquired lowly.

"Very. On a scale, this book would reach a ten-out-of-ten. Encrusted with _Black Spinel_, it is; been doused in Unicorn blood as well... not to mention the spells put on it by those Egyptians. Good stuff, I heard; dark, very dark- but so _strong_."

"Is much known about the spells?"

"From what I've heard- and seen- it's mostly wards. Either keeping people out...or keeping something in."

Lucius felt a shiver crawl up his spine, but he managed to repress it just in time. A book... a cursed one, at that. What could the Dark Lord want with a cursed book? Something so rare_,_ so _valuable_...

What sort of damage could it do; Mass destruction? Armageddon? Who was it intended for? Was it intended for anyone? But the book had _wards_ placed upon it...ancient wards- magic that surely even the oldest, most experienced wizards hadn't heard of.

"Its contents?" he asked, trying to keep himself in check. He was becoming curious...far too curious for his own good. Oh if the Dark Lord didn't want him to know this information...but the Dark Lord sent him, didn't he? Surely it was within his right to know about the item- just a little bit of information never hurt anybody...

"Can't read them." The tubby man replied, leaning away from Lucius and starting to walk back around the counter. "I'll go and fetch it."

The blond nodded his approval and took a deep breath. A cursed book... and he was taking it to the Dark Lord.

A short minute later- after much scuffling- Borgin returned holding a rectangular object covered with layers upon layers of dirty, dust ridden cloth. He dropped it onto the high counter with a _thump_ and the two men watched in silence as a cavalcade of dust emptied out from the ragged cloth's many folds, a miniature storm of sand that sent a thick cloud of dirt into the air.

Curiously, Lucius reached out and pulled the layers of fabric to the sides so that the hard cover was exposed.

"Wouldn't touch it if I were you-" Borgin warned.

Lucius gave him a look of disgust- honestly, did the man think that he was daft? Finally, once the many layers were peeled away, Lucius was able to view the cover.

It was a thick, light coloured wooden cover with seams of silver flowing through the little cracks like streams- definitely preserved Unicorn Blood. There were small black jewels scattered randomly- at least, that's what he assumed- over the surface. Gathering some of the cloth between his thumb and four fingers so that he wasn't touching the item directly, he lifted it up and turned it to the side so that he could inspect its spine. It was a _very_ heavy book, he noticed. Funny, he couldn't make out the language that was written there.

Noticing the other mans confusion, Borgin said, "Coptic. It's an old language that they spoke prior to the seventeenth century, I heard."

"Can it be translated?" the blond inquired.

"Yes sir."

"Well?" Lucius asked, annoyed at Borgin for taking up more of his time than necessary.

Sensing Lucius's rising agitation, Borgin's face became red and he nervously sputtered out, "I-it hasn't been."

Sighing in exasperation, Lucius placed the book back upon the counter.

"How much will this be costing?" he asked, suddenly curious as to know exactly how much the item would be worth.

Borgin licked his lips and tapped the counter, seemingly mulling over the price. "Eighty-Eight thousand three hundred and thirty-nine Galleons...uh...three sickles and twenty-two knuts." He replied, daring to look at Lucius's paling face.

The Malfoys were hardly ever out of pocket, but this price... sure, they could afford it-just- but it was still incredibly pricey. But they were still Malfoys...and Malfoys could afford _anything_; even an ancient, cursed book.

"That's fine." Lucius snapped, taking a check from his pocket so he could write out the amount.

"Of course, sir." Borgin said politely as he started to wrap up the object with the discarded cloth.

Once the transaction was made, Lucius took the item, bundled it tightly under his arm, and stared to leave when the shopkeeper grabbed his arm firmly with his grotty hands and pulled the courtly man down so that he could listen. Lucius tried to pry himself from the man's grip, but was only gripped tighter. How _dare_ he touch a Malfoy.

"Be careful." Was all the squat man whispered and he released his vice-like grip on Lucius.

Shooting Borgin an icy glare, he readjusted the package under his arm and stalked forward, pausing at the door.

"Draco, come." He said coldly. He heard footsteps behind him and when they paused a few feet away, he stepped out of the shop with that same uncharacteristic tinkling bell sound and led his son down the many twists and turns of Knockturn Alley, one question and one question only playing on his mind: what in the world was the Dark Lord planning?

DMHG

Malfoy Manor

8:36 pm

"_Care to divulge now, Mudblood?" _

Her voice- _her god awful voice_- was a cold hiss filled with absolute loathing. It was feral, unrestrained and the glee the mad woman so obviously felt was sickening.

Hermione felt like fighting back, she knew that she should, but she couldn't. Her limbs were still twitching and her teeth were still chattering beyond her control. She felt crippled, weak. She couldn't form a single word on her tongue and when she tried, all she could manage was a pathetic '_Ungh_'.

"_Not ready yet?" _Bellatrix hissed with unconcealed vehemence. "_So be it, Mudblood._"

That same stabbing, bone crushing pain rushed through her body, mangling every single one of her nerves. It was the sort of pain that might come from being crushed with a steam-roller, but one thousand times worse. Not that the witch had ever felt such hurt, but she was sure that there was nothing in the world that hurt worse than this.

The woman cackled again and the pain relented to a dull, bone-deep ache instead. Her ankles and legs throbbed and she felt the warm wetness of blood dribble from the deep cuts that marred the skin in those places. She tried to breathe in and out evenly; survival trick one-oh-one.

She felt terror bubble in the pit of her stomach when the sound of Bellatrix's light footfalls. By the sounds of it, the mad woman was stepping around Hermione's spasming body.

"You have _so many_ secrets, girl." She hissed, leaning down toward Hermione's face.

Hermione could feel the light tickle of Bellatrix's hair on her forehead- a sensation that made her feel almost completely nauseated. That vile woman's hair was touching her... actually touching her. Hermione found it hard to believe that she had been literally been touched by evil.

"_Or maybe not so hard, considering,"_ whispered a small fraction of her mind. She felt the tip of Bellatrix's wand prod deeply into the skin of her cheek, but she could hardly feel it. As if wanting some kind of answer, Bellatrix pushed the tip of the wand into the skin further. Yep, there would definitely be a bruise there. Of course, with all the other places that felt bruised, surely another one wouldn't matter? But it was still her face and Hermione- although having never truly cared in the past- felt a small inkling of despair at the thought of having a dark blue patch on her cheek.

When the witch didn't talk, Bellatrix huffed and retracted her wand. Standing up, she then proceeded to pace again around Hermione's body. "So the little Mudblood chooses not to speak again, does she?" Bellatrix seethed. "Such a pathetic lump, you are." She then leant down next to Hermione's head again, tilting the girl's chin to the side with her wand. "Look at you, just laying there, twitching like a disgusting little maggot." She dropped Hermione's chin then, and it flopped to the side. "Pitiful."

Hermione desperately wanted to speak, to at least say _something_ and defend herself, but she was unable. She still wasn't able to speak, although the feel was slowly seeping back into her tongue.

She knew that the torture couldn't continue for much longer as Bellatrix usually left after what seemed- realistically- to be about an hour. She could hold out until then, she knew she could.

"Wonder what that Potter boy is up to." The mad woman taunted. "Probably dead, the rate your side is going."

Harry wasn't dead; Hermione knew that much. He couldn't be... he would have found a way to survive, he always did. He was brave and intelligent, not to mention the fact that he had a habit of avoiding death. Plus, if he were dead, then Bellatrix wouldn't have wasted the opportunity to torture Hermione with the fact. No, he wasn't dead...he couldn't be.

"Nothing to say to that?" Bellatrix questioned sweetly. A second later: "So be it."

Hermione squished her eyelids tighter and braced herself for the next wave of torture.

"_Crucio."_

Hermione's chilling screams rang out through the large area, echoing across the walls. But it was short lived- thank goodness- as the curse was dropped rather abruptly.

Hermione blinked in confusion a couple of times, limbs still jerking, but it was apparent that Bellatrix truly was gone, without even a single scornful word to the witch.

When she finally heard the door slam shut, Hermione took in a deep, shaky breath and exhaled, thanking her lucky stars that the torture had ended sooner rather than later.

_Until tomorrow then..._

* * *

><p>The drapes needed changing, Narcissa Malfoy decided, twiddling her thumbs as she sat at the long table in the drawing room. They were too bland...too old-fashioned. Purple was so <em>out<em> this season.

In fact, purple just added to the shadows of the room- which was already far too dark in the first place. She needed something to lighten it up; perhaps a light pink with a white lace backing? That might make the room open up, seem more welcoming.

She looked toward the living chairs that stood in front of the large French window. They looked so _old_. Yes, they certainly needed an update as well. Maybe white to keep with the colour scheme? No, white would give the room a sterilised feel and too much white and pink would make the room seem like a boutique. Perhaps she should reconsider the colour of the drapes altogether...a dark blue?

_Crash._

Her head snapped toward the direction of the loud noise- which happened to be the double doors- and wasn't at all surprised to see her sister march straight through. Bellatrix always slammed doors, especially when she was in a hurry.

"Has he been here, Cissy?" she whispered when she got close enough to the woman.

Narcissa shook her head and whispered back, "No."

Bellatrix flopped in an almost comical fashion onto the chair beside her sister, blowing her wild hair out of her face. She then hunched forward and placed her hands on the table, twiddling her thumbs the same way her sister had before.

"Don't hunch, Bella." Narcissa said eyeing the way Bellatrix was sitting with distaste.

Bellatrix gave Narcissa a glare and the woman rolled her eyes.

After a moment, she heard the door open again and Draco walked through, dark circles decorating the bags under his eyes. Her poor boy; he clearly wasn't getting any sleep. He looked up and saw her watching him, and he smiled slightly. She smiled back warmly and leaned over to pull the chair out beside her so that he could sit.

"Thank you, mother." He said, taking a seat.

"You're welcome." She replied, touching his shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Another two bodies entered the room and the three occupants looked to see who it was.

Of course, it was Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape.

The two men took their places on the other side of the table and Lucius, Narcissa noticed, was looking longingly at the place beside her.

She too wished that they could sit together as they normally did when it came to these events, but not doing it once couldn't hurt. Lucius and Severus were speaking together in hushed tones, possibly discussing the meeting ahead, she assumed.

A few more minutes passed while a few other Death Eaters entered the room. Crabbe, Goyle, Mcnaire and even Greyback- much to her terror- arrived as well. However they all chose to sit near Lucius and Severus who were still talking in hushed tones.

It was a small relief- perhaps silly in the grand scheme of things, but Narcissa felt soothed to know that Greyback wasn't seated next to her son like in the last meeting...she had just about had a heart attack that one time. However her attention wavered from her thoughts for a moment when she felt the wards of her house. It was a cold tingle, one that felt as if she had ice melting down her back. It was a small, physical feeling and although it was odd, it was frighteningly familiar to the family now.

She knew that it would be a second until _he_ entered the room.

A black, shapeless cloud was starting to form at the head of the table, closest to Bellatrix and Severus. It was a chilling cloud, one that seemed to absorb the body heat of the occupants like a giant, greedy sponge.

They all watched patiently as the body of their Lord slowly started to manifest. Feet first, head last; it was the same way that it always happened. The black ebbed away to form the robes that he usually wore and in its place, his almost translucent skin solidified. And finally, he opened his red slit eyes.

Lo and behold: Lord Voldemort was in her home.

"Good evening." He said in his low, cold hiss.

A few scattered greetings were mumbled however most were drowned out my Bellatrix's high pitched, "Good evening, Milord."

Lord Voldemort looked around at the table calculatingly, his face a blank mask. Finally, his icy stare came to rest on Lucius, who immediately became ram-rod straight in his seat.

"The item?" Lord Voldemort asked after a minute of silence.

"Right here, My Lord." Lucius said smoothly, taking out a rectangular object covered with sheets of dirty cloth.

Narcissa watched as the Dark Lord's eyes widened ever so slightly and his mouth opened just a small bit. The expression was almost laughable, considering the fact that it was he, Lord Voldemort, who was surprised for a change. But she daren't speak her thoughts out loud, oh no, she mustn't ever do that when it came to Lord Voldemort.

The object slowly started to rise above the table and float steadily over to the Dark Lord. When it reached the space in front of him, it dropped in a light cloud of dust.

He could barely conceal his excitement, she noticed. He carefully unwrapped the package and once he was finished, smiled. It was a book; an old, dusty book.

Oh, that was so... _strange_. She hadn't known that the Dark Lord was interested in books of all things. Of course he would have to be somewhat intelligent… but sending Lucius book-shopping? It didn't quite fit.

"Well done, Lucius." He said finally, wrapping the book back up and making it float back over to Lucius. Once it was back on the table, the meeting started.

"The Muggle Regime is due to start tomorrow, am I correct?" he asked, eyeing each individual.

"Yes, My Lord." Pius Thiknesse, a thin, balding man, said.

"And am I to take it that Scrimgeour will be assassinated then as well?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"Very well." His gaze then went around the table, until it came to rest on McNair. "Have the names been processed fully?" He asked.

"They have, My Lord." He replied.

"So they'll be ready by tomorrow?"

"Yes, My Lord. "

"Good, good." His gaze then travelled around the table... until it came to rest on Draco, who was staring at the space in front of him intently. "And how about you, Draco... how are _things_ going for you?"

Narcissa could have sworn her heart stopped when Lord Voldemort addressed her son. She kept on looking forwards though, reminding herself that he was virtually safe; he would be fine, The Dark Lord had no need to harm him, no need to kill him...

"I'm well, thank you, My Lord." Draco replied smoothly, looking into Voldemort's glowing eyes.

Lord Voldemort was silent for a short moment before he nodded his head briefly.

"You, Greyback... how're the _pups_?" he inquired, leaning forward in his chair.

"Playful." Greyback grimaced, pushing a dirty hand through his greasy hair.

"Good." He said approvingly.

Pups? Narcissa hadn't heard any word on _pups_. She thought over the scenario briefly. What did _pups_ have to do with anything? However she was pulled from her thoughts when she heard the Dark Lord address Draco again.

"Are you going back to school?" Narcissa took in a sharp breath. What interest did the Dark Lord have in Draco's education? Was he planning something?

"I- I'm not sure." Draco replied, his face reddening with embarrassment over not being able to answer a question properly. He then looked at his mother questioningly. Of course, Narcissa had yet to divulge her plans to her son, but what to tell Lord Voldemort?

"We are unsure at this time, My Lord." She answered for him smoothly. A few of the Death Eaters chuckled and Narcissa forced herself not to shoot them glares. It didn't do well to fuel arguments in this crowd.

"The question was not meant for you." Voldemort said coldly, his red glare resting on the woman.

"I am sorry, My Lord." She apologised. Of course, she wasn't really sorry, not even in the slightest...

Voldemort's eyes rested on her for another beat until he drew them away from her so that he could look at Draco again.

"Tell us Draco...what are you planning to do when you finish your schooling?"

Draco's eyes widened briefly until he smoothed his features over.

"I was planning on taking over the family business, My Lord." He replied.

A beat.

"You may want to re-think that." It was almost as if Lord Voldemort's voice alone turned the boy to ice. In fact, it was almost as if his voice could make Narcissa's heart give way. Panic flooded her system at once, icing through every vein in her body.

"_You may want to re-think that."_

What in the world did he mean?

* * *

><p><strong>Weeew another chapter! :D<strong>

**I would like to give one BIG thank to Tookkia for Beta-ing this chapter :) Honestly, your opinions and corrections are so well appreciated. I just can't believe that I'm so _lucky_ as to have such an amazing Beta :)**

_**Notes: **_**The price of the book is equivilent (I think, from memory) to One Million Australian dollars. I used the converter on Mugglenet, which was an absolute life saver, btw! I was actually just getting my Harry Potter books out to research when my friend told me about it ;P  
>On another note, hopefully we can now start see a plot take shape ;) I was getting really anxious that people would stop reading due to the lack of plot and Dramione-ness. :P<br>**

** Updates: I won't be able to consistently update from here on out.  I'll try to make it every Saturday, but I've recently started school again and I'm not used to the increased homework load just yet- this weekend I actually recieved four assignments -.-. So until I can find a steady pattern, updates will probably be random, although I'll still try and keep it consistent. **

**Review Reply:  
>Thank you very much for reviewing, Evie! :) I'm so glad that you like it! :)<strong>


	6. Chapter Six: Unleashed

**Massive thanks to Tookkia, who did an amazing job at Beta-ing this chapter :) Thank you!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<br>****Unleashed**

Malfoy Manor 

_10:40 pm _

The Dark Lord was horrific, absolutely horrific. He was an abomination; something so terrifying that perhaps the only creature that could stand to be in his presence for an extended amount of time would be his familiar, Nagini. Other than that one, small exception, there was not a person on the planet who could stand to be in the same room as him for an extended amount of time. If they could, then surely they would be deemed insane.

Just how he, Lucius Malfoy survived, he would never know.

The meeting hadn't taken very long at all, and he had deduced with his quick mind that the main point of the experience was for The Dark Lord to check up on the Death Eaters and then re-instate the fear that his mere presence presented.

Then there was the book.

When The Dark Lord had given Lucius the duty to crack the secrets of the book, he'd been less than ecstatic. Maybe once he would have been jumping for joy at the very implication that he was climbing higher through the Death Eater ranks; but not anymore. No, certainly not anymore. Now he was afraid, despite how much he hated to admit to himself. Good gods, his grand-father would be turning in his grave if he knew his own son was afraid of someone! But then again, his grand-father certainly didn't know Voldemort.

He could feel the heavy weight of the ancient book underneath his hands as he placed it carefully upon the fine oak of his polished work desk. One could almost feel the aura of darkness that emitted from its magical pages, beneath its hard cover. The very feeling would have once made Lucius feel excited- as one of his greatest hobbies had been collecting dark artifacts- but now, due to the current circumstances, it just made him feel nauseous.

This book was dark. Darker than what was normal. Even darker than what was normal for The 'Dark' Lord.

He had been given a mission: study the book, uncover its secrets (perhaps even de-code it, if it need be) and then report back to his Master with his findings. That was it. But why was it that the very notion of even opening the book gave him chills?

Sitting down on his wooden chair, he leaned back a tiny bit so that he could place his legs on the desk before him. Why did The Dark Lord choose him? Should he feel happy? Or afraid? If he was being honest with himself, then the answer was obvious.

He was absolutely terrified. But he wouldn't admit it to anyone. Not to his wife, not his son, not even to his fellow Death Eaters. No, Lucius Malfoy may have felt like his nerves were in shambles, but he wasn't going to show it. Ever.

_"You have a week…"_ the horribly silky voice hissed through his consciousness. _"A week…"_

Yes, he had a week. A week before something happened. Probably a week before he was killed- ruthlessly murdered- by his master. So he'd better get started if he wanted to live to see his grandchildren.

He leaned forward, the chair scraping slightly against the floor with the movement. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, clasping his hands and leaning his elbows on the desk. Inhale, exhale. It was only a book, after all. Probably nothing.

Gathering what little courage he could, he took a white linen handkerchief from the small area on the desk to his right, and with it, pulled back the cover. One could never tell with these things, and Lucius knew enough about dark magic to risk any accidental physical contact. He gritted his teeth as he carefully placed his hand under the cover, about to open the volume to the very first page.

_3, 2, 1…_

And the smell was rancid.

He couldn't get the cover shut quickly enough. He slammed it shut with amiable haste and scooted back in his chair so abruptly that it tipped over. His arms splayed, his legs kicked, he lost balance, and everything crashed to the floor, including himself.

_Crash._

He was sure that he was getting a migraine. Sitting up slowly and shaking his head a tiny bit, he winced as he leaned on his newly bruised elbow. It was nothing that a quick _episkey _couldn't fix, however, and so, being the smart aristocrat he was, he stood up and magicked the chair so that it was standing where it was before.

What the _hell_ had that smell been? A small trace of it still lingered in the damp air and he had a hard time trying to squash the queasiness that he felt when he caught a slight whiff of it. He had never smelled anything like it. It was worse than rotting corpses. Far, far worse than even a dead House Elf. If one thing was for certain, he didn't want to encounter it ever again.

But he had to, because he had a job to finish.

Muttering an incantation that let a small bubble of clean air form around his nose, he gathered the white cloth in his hand again and lifted the cover in an agonizingly slow manner.

Dark-colored dust billowed out from underneath the cover, encasing his form completely. He coughed and spluttered, lifting his free hand to cover his mouth. But he wouldn't stop.

As he choked violently into his closed fist, his vision became startlingly white and he felt his eyes roll up into the back of his head. All normal thought processes were aborted. He was aware of nothing but the violent hacks that were taking hold of his body.

His throat felt like it was torn to pieces and his lungs were completely on fire. He couldn't even hear himself rasp anymore. In fact, he couldn't hear a thing at all but a frightening static buzz. He continued to cough violently, his body pulsing forwards with each choke, dangerously close to the edge of the table.

Eyes rolling, stomach churning, throat tearing itself to shreds, he was no longer in his own mind.

After five minutes of the terrible coughing, when blood was oozing from his eyes, nose and mouth did he finally go rigid, freeze, and then crash-almost comically- sideways onto the floor where he twitched once.

On his office floor, surrounded by the most putrid stench imaginable to man, covered in his own blood, Lucius Malfoy clawed at the air, opened his mouth to no avail, shuddered once, and then slumped to the ground without a breath left.

He was dead.

* * *

><p><em>Click, clack, click, clack. <em>

The insistent echo of Lady Malfoy's newest high heels rang throughout the main wing of Malfoy Manor. A month ago, she would have frowned upon conducting herself in such a manner; after all, she _was_ a woman of class, and trudging like a muggle through mud was _certainly_ not proper. However in the current circumstances, it couldn't be helped.

_Click, clack, click, clack._

The current circumstances were dire. At least, she was quite sure that they were dire. After all, they did involve the Dark Lord… and her son; a nightmare of a combination.

She walked a little bit faster.

_Click, clack, click, clack._

She needed to speak to her husband. For the first time in years, she was going to talk to him about their son and his wellbeing. The recent meeting had nearly given her a heart attack, especially with what The Dark Lord had said to her son.

_"You may need to re-think that."_

It wasn't exactly a very promising statement, that was for sure. Oh, it made her bones shake. The very wording made her shudder. Especially because it was directed at her son. Her poor boy…

His father had always argued that Draco was an adult and that he needed to be treated as such, which she agreed with to an extent. Yes, he was seventeen, but he was still her child. Her only child. He was hers- all hers- and she was going to baby him as much as she pleased, especially if it meant keeping him alive in this day and age. Fancy living in a time where she had to make sure that her seventeen year old son didn't die! It was horrid thought, one that was unfortunately true.

Her mind then drifted to her plan. It was quite basic, really. One that Lucius certainly wouldn't agree to. She was going to make it so that Draco escaped with the girl. They were going to run away together and keep on running. They weren't going to be mixed up in such a terrible place any longer. They would survive and go on to live out their lives.

It was simple… it was stupid.

They were going to live their lives on the run. But surely that would be better than never living at all? She would have thought so. When she was a child, the first lesson that she had ever been taught was to preserve her life at all costs, even if it meant harm coming to others. Of course now she had changed that lesson around a bit: Preserve _Draco's_ life, even if it means harm coming to others. It was the same lesson, really. Only now she recited it from a mothers' perspective.

_Click, clack, click, clack._

She was nearly there. Her hands felt like ice as she clenched them. She was shaking, due to her nerves. What would he say? She loved the man dearly, but he was still frightening. What if he didn't agree? Well, of course she would continue with it, but what if he tried to stop her? She honestly couldn't match her husband's magic skill. She was the brains, he was the brawn. It was the very basics of their relationship. Of course, he was a very intelligent man… but he certainly wasn't as intelligent as his wife. He was better suited to spells, and she was better suited to the logic that accompanied them.

It was one of the many reasons why they clicked.

Finally, after what seemed like an excruciatingly long time- despite how fast she travelled- she came to a halt at the end of the bleak hall where a large and polished dark wooden door proudly stood. Upon it was a rectangular golden plate, inscribed with a few magically glowing words.

_**Mr. Lucius. A. Malfoy**_

_**Malfoy Enterprises **_

Knocking tentatively so as to not anger her husband with unnecessary volume, she turned the heavy brass knob slowly and stepped inside. Immediately, she noticed that a strange, unpleasant odor suffocated the room.

"Lucius?" she asked softly, her nose crinkling in disgust as the odor changed from being 'strange' to 'putrid' the farther she stepped into the room. She glanced around the shadowed area, trying hard to pick up on any kind of Lucius-like outline whilst holding her nose between her thumb and middle finger.

The stench was practically unbearable. It smelled roughly of a dead house-elf left to rot in humid weather- which wasn't a very pleasant smell at all.

"Lucius, where-" that was when she noticed, amongst the thick clouds of dust, a heavy form lying upon the ground beside the desk. Her breath caught in her throat as she click-clacked over as fast as she could, worry creasing her brow and forcing her mouth into a hard line.

The mantra; _"Please don't be Lucius, please, please don't be Lucius."_ played over and over in her head. It couldn't be Lucius- no, it simply couldn't be.

However when she finally reached the form- which was encased in a thicker clouding of dust than the rest of the room- she felt as if her heart had stopped beating.

There on the floor, pale and drenched in blood, lay her husband Lucius Malfoy. Very obviously dead.

She screamed.

* * *

><p>A shrill, female scream pierced right through the manor and straight into Draco Malfoy, who had just wrapped a towel around his waist. It was a scream which shocked him, made him go rigid with pure, ice cold terror. He knew that scream anywhere.<p>

It belonged to his mother.

Adrenalin pulsated through his body, forcing his legs to move. He quickly sprinted out of the bathroom-luckily not slipping on the dewy tile- and into his abnormally large bedroom where he soundlessly summoned his wand from his bedside table. Not bothering to dress himself, he rushed out through his door and into the left wing of the manor where he was greeted by a chilling silence.

He could feel the blood rush behind his ears and his heart beat a thousand times each and every second. He stood still, waiting for some other sound so that he could locate her. But there was no other sound.

Breathing in deeply, he raised his wand in front of him and flicked it. The tip glowed and he was able see the familiar surroundings. The hall way was stark. It was completely sterile. The only thing that told him it wasn't another ward at a mental hospital was the lonely portrait that hung opposite his door.

The portrait was always absent- he figured that it had another home somewhere else that it preferred- but it was a homely touch, as sad and pathetic as it sounded.

He walked forward a couple of steps, his eyes darting back and forth, taking in each and every minor detail. He was quite observant. Everyone knew that.

He inched forward, keeping his wand raised high in front of him. He silently dared anyone or any_thing_ to come at him. He dared them to take him by surprise. He would take them on. He could do it, he was sure. But he hoped that they didn't attack. Certainly not because he was_ scared_… no, it was because he wanted to get to his mother as soon as possible. Well… maybe he was a tiny bit scared. It was natural, wasn't it?

"_Oh, oh, OH MY GOD!" _

His mother's voice trilled through the hallways yet again, shooting through him like a thin beam of ice. He started to run. He knew where she was. He was so sure that she was somewhere in the next wing; probably in his father's office. However it hardly made any sense. Why would his mother scream in his father's office?

Eugh, no. He wasn't going to think _that. _Besides, this was a different scream. It wasn't a scream of -dare he say it- _pleasure._ No, it was a scream of fear. Of absolute horror. His mother was scared out of her wits. But what could make her this afraid? She was a brave woman…

He turned a sharp corner and was shocked when he collided into a stiff form.

Stumbling, but regaining his balance almost immediately, he glanced at the shadowy figure before nearly sending a curse its way. However he stopped himself when he saw the pale, terrified face of his mother.

Her watery eyes were wide and her mouth gaped. Her fingers shook as she raised a bony hand toward him, her light eyebrows knitting harshly together. Pure terror masked her face and it shocked Draco to see her in such a way. This was his mother, after all.

She continued to raise her hand and then lean forwards, mouth still gaping pitifully. But she leaned too far and she fell. Draco's arms reached out automatically to grab her before she crumbled to the ground, seemingly unconscious.

"M-mother?" he asked feebly, bending down onto one knee so that he could better support her weight as she slumped over his shoulder. But she didn't respond and instead he felt her body shaking horribly. What could have possibly made her this way? Then he realized that there may still be danger around.

"Mother," he started, patting her on the back. "It's okay. Everything will be fine, but I need to have a look at what's up there, okay?" He didn't expect her to answer, but it still felt normal to ask a question, as if she could reply in her current state. "I'm going to cast a shield charm on you so that you'll be safe."

Once he had cast the charm and placed his mother carefully next to the wall near a pot-plant, he held the wand out in front of him again and began walking slowly toward his father's office.

He just _knew_ that was where she had come from. There was no doubt about it whatsoever. But _why?_

He walked closer toward the open door where a soft light glowed. As he got about three meters of the door, however, the most terrible stench that he had ever smelled hit him. It was disgusting. It was foul. It smelled like a rotted corpse. Just what had his mother walked into?

Clenching his wand tighter in his fist, he took a deep breath through his mouth and closed his eyes for a second, preparing himself for the horror that was sure to come. He just knew that his father was involved. It happened in his office, after all.

However he most certainly wasn't prepared for the sight that he would see.

Blood. There was lots of blood. And there was dust. Too much dust.

Oh, and there was a body. His father's, to be precise.

Nausea gripped him suddenly and he bent down so that he could vomit ineloquently onto the floor below him. His father was dead… his father was actually dead… oh no… no this wasn't good! Of course it wasn't good, for God's sake it was his father! The nausea reared its ugly head and he vomited again, quite disgustingly.

Obviously he was in shock. He knew that he was in shock. How could he not be? His father was lying in his office. Dead. As dead as anything. His mother was out of her mind and he, Draco, was just standing there, vomiting.

He needed to get help, but who? He needed to think straight, but how?

Calm. He needed calm.

He fisted his hair and pulled it a little bit, not quite sure of what he needed to accomplish. He knew he needed help… he knew that he needed someone to help… but how could they help? His father was already dead.

Oh God. His father was dead.

He felt like Neville-bloody-Longbottom with his stupid indecisiveness! Tightening the towel around his waist so that it wouldn't come undone in an embarrassing display, he backed out of the room and ran down the hall, passing by his mother.

Calm. He needed calm.

He tripped over his own feet a couple of times due to the nerves that were starting to take hold as the adrenalin faded, but he kept on running. He couldn't stop. This was a dire situation.

Finally reaching the room he was looking for, he didn't even bother knocking and barged right in. He didn't care what the batty old man was doing, Draco needed someone to help. An adult to help.

"Sometimes, Draco, knocking is socially accepted." Droned the potions master. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking at some picture that Draco honestly didn't care about. Heck, he could barely even function. His father was dead. Oh God, his father was dead!

"Father is dead!" He practically yelled. He watched in a kind of weird fascination as the man's skin leaked of all color. Then in a rush of black robes, he was pulled from the room and led back up to his father's office. It was happening in a blur. What was he supposed to be doing again? Oh right, his dead father.

He couldn't think properly. No, he couldn't think properly at all. The same words drummed through his mind over and over again.

_Father is dead. Father is dead. Father is dead. _

Somewhere in the back of his mind, it clicked that because his father was dead, he- as the Malfoy heir- would have complete control over the family accounts. He would have to drop out of Hogwarts. The very idea irked him. Drop out of Hogwarts? How could he? Sure, he had been openly crude about the boarding school…but it was as much a home to him as it was to anyone else. It was safe to say that over the years, the school hand grown on him.

_But really, father is dead. _

He couldn't think of anything else for long. Father was dead. Every other thought crumbled back into the white static that hummed through his mind. Father. Was. Dead. Why didn't it feel real? He hated the man, didn't he? He absolutely despised him. Shouldn't he be jumping for joy? What was wrong with him? The man that he had started despising only a few years ago was dead. It was a cause for celebration, wasn't it?

He thought that he should feel free, as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. No, instead he felt like another weight had been added- a weight that weighed a ton.

It wasn't until the horrid smell hit him again that he was finally pulled into reality.

He was standing in the middle of the office, looking down at the bloody mess that was his father. Dust coated absolutely everything- from the curtains to the books in the book case- and the air felt heavy and sticky. Snape held his illuminated wand over the lifeless body of his father and was moving it up and down across his torso, muttering incantations under his breath.

"How did you find him, Draco?" the man drawled, tight lipped. He flicked his wand once and then the glow was gone. "I want to know how…when…what."

Draco gulped, mentally going through the horrifying memories of the night until he came to the first relevant one. His mothers scream.

He recounted the night from there, telling the potions master of each and every moment that led up to the present. He never skipped a beat, and he never missed a detail. Harsh and formal. That was the Malfoy way. Snape's eyes were narrowed and his lip twitched every time Draco mentioned the word 'Dead'. Draco deduced that Snape didn't truly like his father, as he had previously thought.

When Draco was finished, he crossed his arms over his chest defensively, even though he didn't really need to be defensive at all. It was a habit that he had picked up last year when he was given the mission. He had had to be guarded at all times. Not a single secret could slip.

It was then that he realized he was calmer. Yes, his heart still beat quite fast, but his thoughts were organized. Uncluttered. He could finally think properly and not run around wide eyed like a mad-man. He was proper.

"Where's your mother?" Snape's monotonous drawl flowed through his thoughts, bringing the boy back to reality. He hadn't forgotten about her, had he? No, of course not. Draco Malfoy never forgot anything. His thoughts had simply been occupied elsewhere.

"Over by the plant." He replied, covering his nose and stepping out of the office. He wasn't needed there anymore and quite frankly, the smell was hideous. He'd probably die soon too if he stayed in there any longer. Drop dead like his father apparently had.

He walked over to the plant, wordlessly illuminating his wand so that he could see in the dark. Yes, his mother was still there. Passed out. Her long blonde hair was a tangled heap that surrounded her head like a halo. Even when she was unconscious due to horrible events, she was beautiful.

Draco bent down on his knees and leaned down so that he could touch her cheek and mutter, "Mother? Are you there?" After a minute and zero response, he sighed. She wasn't coming around any time soon. He could use _enervate, _but even he wasn't that cruel. She had found the man that she had loved, dead. Why couldn't she be in unconscious bliss for a short while longer?

"Draco?" he heard Snape's low voice behind him.

"Yes?" He asked, swiveling around so that he could face the man. Never turn your back. It had been drilled into him since he was a child.

"Get the Granger girl. Bring her up here."

Draco's head swirled. Grab the mudblood? _Why?_

"W-wh-" he stuttered, not quite believing why someone would tell him to do this. Why did he need to get Granger? How did she fit into all of this?

"Just do it." Snape told him, voice full of authority. "Your mother and I were going to explain later, but due to certain… events, it's best that we explain the plan sooner. Meet us in your bedroom- it's closest."

His mind was reeling. Take Granger up to his bedroom where his mother and Snape would explain something unreal to him. Sure his father had died, but why would it affect Granger as well? Why was she to be involved?

Somehow, he had the feeling that this was just the beginning, that his life was about to be turned upside down.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So. That was quite the wait. 4-5 weeks, I think? I have no excuse except for the fact that when I felt inspired to write it was either too late at night or I had schoolwork to do. Then when I actually had time to write, I was so worn out and just not 'feeling' the story. **

**In this chapter you would have noticed that someone died. Just trust me when I say that from now on, _nothing_ is as it seems. THIS is where the story really starts.**

**So, please leave a review if you can, tell me whether you loved it or hated it. Give me a score out of ten. Tell me what the weather's like. Okay, maybe not the weather, but at least leave me an opinion. :) Thank you! :)**

**Review Reply:**

**Anon: Nice name ;) Ha I'm glad that you think it's interesting! As for what'll happen to Hermione... well, we'll just have to see, won't we? ;)**


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